I O U Much More
by SailorXStar
Summary: "I don't think there is any other way for me to describe the way I feel for you. It's so strong, so deep. I feel as though I cannot be myself without you. That's why if anything were to happen to you, I wouldn't be able to go on. You have become so much a part of me..." Post-Reichenbach, Johnlock with hints of Mystrade and MorMor. SailorXStar as Sherlock and my RP buddy as John.
1. An Unexpected Saviour

Hello everyone! Yes, I'm alive XD First and foremost, I am soooooooo so sorry that I stopped updating **ISS**. To be completely honest, I just have the most horrible writer's block for that story. I think it's because I have so many plans for all of the other years, but not for third year, and I don't want to just do a bunch of filler. I might rework the story format a little, and hopefully I can get it up and running again. I will not give up on it yet!

Anyway, THIS STORY OMG. Alright, so I am a huuuuuuge fan of BBC's Sherlock, and way way back (like almost a year ago) when I first started going on omegle to RP I met this wonderful person who gave me this prompt. We RP'd pretty much the majority of this chapter over a few hours before she had to go to bed, but then we exchanged emails. She became my first email RP and possibly my favourite because this story that we wrote together is just fantastic. Unfortunately, she has gotten very busy, so I haven't heard from her in a long time, but I have enough from what we've already done to post thirteen full chapters and have a pretty solid ending just in case we never do finish. I have wanted to post this story FOREVER, because I really think that you'll enjoy it. So please don't let me down XD**_  
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Alright, that's enough of me. Without further ado, I present the first chapter of **I O U Much More**. Please read and review and fave and all that good stuff because that will make me incredibly happy! I'll be updating every Monday so keep your eyes open. Love ya!

~SXS

P.S. I don't know how I feel about the title. I mean, it just kind of stuck in my head when I started using it, but what do you guys think. Does it fit? Well, actually wait a few chapters and then tell me XD

**Warning: **This story will contain mild violence and male on male sex. Please read at your discretion. Thank you!

**Disclaimer****:** I do not own _Sherlock,_ nor the original stories from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and only the Sherlock half of this story is actually mine. The rest belong to their respective owners.

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John laid miserably in his bed at 221B Baker Street. He hadn't been able to bring himself to move out after Sherlock's death. On this particularly dreary day, it was raining, and John had woken with a horrid cough. Staying in bed all day sounded like a grand idea, especially considering how awful life was without Sherlock.

Sherlock usually didn't hate it when it rained. Under normal circumstances he quite enjoyed the music of the falling drops against the roof or window of the flat. But as of late he had no flat to stay in during these soggy conditions and it was difficult to find a place to duck for shelter when you're supposed to be dead. So the rain was not very welcome.

John forced himself out of bed sometime around nine o'clock. He was already an hour late for work, and he couldn't afford to waste anymore time. For a moment, his head spun rather spectacularly, and he had to pause to find his balance. Then he proceeded with his daily routine. Shower, coffee, clothes, shoes, coat. Life had become dull and repetitive without Sherlock. Ignoring his heightening fever, and coughing into the sleeve of his coat, John left 221B and trudged through the rain on his way to work.

Finally Sherlock had managed to find some cover in the form of an overhang in an alley right across the street from his and John's flat. Ever since he had 'died' Sherlock had been keeping a close eye on John, to make sure that he wasn't still pursued by Moriarty's men. So far nothing particularly threatening had happened, though there might have been a few close calls once or twice. Sherlock, of course, had thwarted these attempts without the least bit of notice from the doctor. As John left the flat to go to work, Sherlock watched from the shadows. John didn't have an umbrella, as usual. He coughed as he walked, and though Sherlock was rather far away, he almost thought he saw a flush on his cheeks. Glancing back at 221, he saw that there was no smoke coming out of the chimney meaning the fire wasn't on, and it was a particularly chilly day, so the only explanation was that John was over heated with fever. Coupled with the cough it made sense. But why would he go out in the rain like that when he was already sick?

Another rush of dizziness struck John, not a block away from the flat. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the nearest solid wall, and blinked to clear his vision. His coughing only intensified, worsening until his lungs burned and his ribs ached from the abuse. "God, maybe I should've stayed home..." he murmured. But, no. He had far too much work to get done, and he was already late. It was just a fever, just a cough, just a bit of dizziness. Nothing John couldn't handle. Besides, what did it matter? What did anything matter, when Sherlock was _dead_? Steeling himself, John continued to walk. He managed to cover another half a block before his knees simply gave out, and he collapsed on the sidewalk.

Sherlock followed John secretly, as he did everyday. He watched as John stopped to lean against the wall for a few moments. His walking seemed lopsided. Dizziness. Then he started to walk again until suddenly he dropped to the sidewalk. Some people around him stopped, gasping and asking if he was alright. Sherlock felt the urge to jump in, but hesitated. Should he reveal himself in front of all these people? He would ruin the all the cover he built and it would put him, and John, in danger again. And yet, he got the feeling that this was far more important. Stepping out from around the corner, he rushed into the crowd of people. "Move away! Get back!" Sherlock physically moved aside everyone until he was the only one there. He picked up his friend and turned around, making his way back to Baker Street and ignoring everyone behind in the crowd.

John was horribly confused. Was he hallucinating? He had to be, because a dead man was carrying him. For the moment, though, he felt too wretched to question it. He turned his face into Sherlock's shoulder, coughing roughly again. He was shivering, trembling terribly despite his burning body and sheen of sweat on his pale forehead. His cheeks, in contrast to the rest of his face, were brightly flushed. One weak hand reached up and twisted in the fabric of Sherlock's comfortingly familiar coat.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John when the doctor grabbed the lapel of his coat. He was shaking violently and he could feel his body heat through all the layers of their combined clothing. Rushing through the torrential downpour, they finally made it back to 221B, and Sherlock carried John up the stairs to their flat. He brought him straight to his bedroom and laid him on the bed. A little hesitant at first, Sherlock took off John's dripping wet clothing and got him fresh pyjamas from his drawers. Then he pulled a blanket up over him and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head so drops of rain flew from his hair.

For a few long minutes, John's fingers clenched around his blanket, then released, then clenched again. He was disoriented, and not at all sure what had just happened. He blinked up at his saviour, struggling to clear his hazy vision. His breathing was shallow. "Sherlock..." he finally said, his voice small, though he'd mustered all the energy he had to speak. "Am I dreaming?"

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. He knew what he _wanted_ to do: he wanted to tell John that he was still alive so that they could go back to life as it used to be, so that he could come home. But it wasn't safe. He could easily say that this was all a dream and John would pass it off as a result of the fever, never being the wiser. He felt a tightening in his chest as he thought about the decision he needed to make. Why was he suddenly so conflicted? This had been happening a lot lately since 'the fall'. His head arguing with what he believed to be the one organ he wasn't supposed to have; his heart. "John, why would you go out in the rain when you're so sick?" he asked, avoiding the choice for a moment.

"I had to go to work," John murmured, his tone suggesting that this was the most obvious thing in the world, and Sherlock clearly should have known the answer to such a foolish question. "I prefer to walk. I don't much like to take cabs. They remind me of you too much." Somewhere in his feverish mind he registered that he was practically babbling, but at the moment, it didn't seem to matter. Sherlock was here and, hallucination or not, John wanted to talk to him.

Again there was a feeling in his chest, his 'heart' acting up. He hated that John was in such pain, even though he knew it was necessary. "That was very stupid of you. I mean it this time when I say you are an idiot."

"I suppose it wasn't very smart," John agreed. "To be honest, I find I don't care much for my health nowadays. It doesn't seem to matter. I don't have you to look after anymore. You're dead. Or, well, I thought you were." He paused for a long moment to struggle through another vicious fit of coughing. "I'm not hallucinating, am I? A hallucination couldn't have carried me back here. You're alive."

Feverish and rambling though he was, John had struck an important point. Sherlock sighed, shoulders dropping in resignation. "Yes, John. I am."

John stared at him. "Sherlock, I would probably punch you if I were strong enough to lift my arm," he said. "Why? _Why?_"

Sherlock looked down at him. "I did it to protect you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty gave me a choice to either jump or you would all die. Obviously I wasn't going to let that happen so...You had to believe I was dead, John. I wanted to tell you, I truly did, but it was too dangerous. His men are still out there. I've been working on eliminating them. I'm so, so sorry, John."

John studied his face, searching for the sincerity there. And of course, it was written all over his face. What reason would Sherlock have to lie? "Of course Moriarty was behind it," he rasped after a long, thoughtful moment. "He has a way of causing trouble, doesn't he? Don't leave again, do you hear me? I can handle myself, Sherlock. I would rather face the danger with you."

"I have no doubt that you can hold your own to an extent. But this is different. These men, this...web. It's much more dangerous than anything that we've dealt with before." Sherlock looked out the window, half-expecting that they would be waiting outside with their guns aimed and ready. "I wouldn't be able to stand it if something happened to you."

"Well, then I suppose you'll just have to stay and look after me, won't you?" John reasoned. "You can clearly see what a wretched job I've done of living with you gone."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I put you through all this." Sherlock lifted a hand and hovered it for a moment over John's before letting it rest there. "I will most certainly stay here while you are sick, but I don't know what I can promise after that."

John glanced down at their hands, a bit stunned by the gesture. Really, he was shocked by how _emotional_ Sherlock was being. The man seemed more human in this moment than John had ever seen him. "Won't I be in more danger, though?" he questioned. "Now that I know you're alive? Leaving me alone will just make me vulnerable." He was desperate. He needed to say just the right thing, whatever that was, to make Sherlock stay.

Sherlock was conflicted again. He could tell that John wanted him to stay, but that would mean that he wouldn't be able to continue on his elimination of Moriarty's men, meaning that eventually they would come back and try to strike again. Yet, if they found out that John knew he was alive and Sherlock left him, John would still be in danger. This was proving to be quite a predicament. "I don't know what to do. Either way, you'll be in danger."

John was confident that Sherlock was close to giving in. After waiting for another fit of coughing to pass, he pressed on. "Wouldn't you rather I be in danger with you here to protect me than be in danger with you God knows where?"

Almost all of Sherlock wanted to say yes. But how would he finish his work? He supposed that he could figure something out later. He needed to think. But for right then, he needed to take care of John. He was sure that the threat of Moriarty's men could wait until later in the night when he could drum up some sort of plan. "You're right. I'd rather fight them side by side with you."

John's tired face lit up with a smile. "I thought so," he said triumphantly. And then his weariness seemed to return in an overwhelming wave, leaving him dizzy and nauseous. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, and gagged, covering his mouth with the other hand. "Sherlock...is there a rubbish bin by the bed? I'm going to vomit..."

Sherlock jumped up, looking around quickly for a rubbish bin and shoved it under where John was leaning over the bed right before he vomited. He rubbed the doctor's back as he coughed up coffee and bile.

At that moment, John was rather glad he hadn't eaten breakfast, and that his dinner the night before had been meager at best. He choked on the bile that stung his throat, coughing wetly before spitting into the rubbish bin. Disgusting, really, but it came with being ill. "Thank you..." he gasped to Sherlock, out of breath.

Sherlock nodded with a low hum. "Would you like me to get you anything?"

"A drink of water," John said, "Would be absolutely brilliant. Please."

"Of course." Getting up, Sherlock went to the kitchen to fetch a glass and filled it with water. He brought it back and set it on the bedside table. "Anything else?"

John reached for the water, but realised that with his hands trembling the way they were, drinking it certainly wasn't going to be simple. "Ahh...you could help me take a drink...?" he suggested, a bit sheepishly. It was rather embarrassing, being an invalid.

"Alright..." Sherlock picked up the glass and put a hand on the back of John's neck, lifting him gently. He brought the rim of the glass to the doctor's lips and tilted it, letting John drink as much as he needed before putting it back down again.

John hummed, his tongue darting out to lick the last cool drops from his lips. "Thank you," he said again. "You know, you're rather good at this. I never thought you'd have such a gentle bedside manner." He smiled at the detective, teasingly.

"I had no idea until now. You tend to bring out my human side." Sherlock smiled back, smoothing some of John's sweaty hair away from his forehead.

John's eyes fluttered closed and he turned into Sherlock's touch. "So tell me...about this web of Moriarty's," he mumbled. "How many are left, do you think, before it's safe for you to officially return...?"

"If I had to estimate," Sherlock said, continuing to stroke John's hair, "I would say three. But those three are the most deadly men on the planet and will not be easily taken care of. It could take me months or even years before I would consider it safe to come back."

John frowned. "Well, that's not acceptable at all," he murmured. "I suppose we'll just have to take care of them a bit faster. What's so special about these three, then?"

"They're the snipers who were targeting the three of you that day. The best marksmen in the world, and they have nothing to lose. They won't hesitate if they see their opportunity. And they're very well concealed, almost as well as Moriarty himself. You could say they were his first outer ring."

"That does sound a bit dangerous..." John mused. He opened his eyes again, his gaze meeting Sherlock's. "I'll be okay, Sherlock," he assured him. "I swear I will. We'll find a way to stop them, but we'll do it together. Understand?"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes and could see determination flash in them. He knew there would be no arguing the point. They were in this together now. And really, he thought, that was how it always should have been. "Alright, John. Together."

"Good," John said with a smile. "As it should be. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll go back to sleep. If you're gone when I wake up, Sherlock Holmes, I swear, I'll never forgive you." He pulled the blankets around himself and curled up loosely on his side. Not how he usually slept, but when he was sick, it was a different story.

"I'll be here," Sherlock said. He smoothed John's hair back one last time as he settled into a light sleep. For a moment he just watched as John's breathing slowed into a steady rhythm. Then he got up and started pacing quietly, hands clasped behind his back. Now was his chance to think. He knew that it wouldn't be long before they realised that he was back in Baker St., and because of that would find out that John knew he was alive. Really they should be off and running at that moment. They needed movement, distance. But John was certainly not well enough to go anywhere at present. They would have to wait until he was better. But in the meantime, what would they do? If they came to the flat now, John wouldn't be able to defend himself at all. Of course, Sherlock would die to protect him, but then John would probably be killed right after. Sherlock made a frustrated grunting sound. What could they do?

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Well, what does everybody think? Let me know by hitting that review button, fave this story, follow it, show me some love :D And, to my darling RP partner, if you're out there reading this, I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you so much and I hope to hear from you soon.


	2. The Genius's Weak Spot

Hello darlings! Well, here it is, the second chapter :D Firstly I want to say I lied last week. I actually have 15 fill chapters instead of 13. That means more fun! Secondly, I know this chapter is a little dialogue heavy and not very actiony, but don't worry. There will be action very soon ;D

And now as always I please ask you to read, review, and enjoy. Fave or follow if you want to see more, and I'll see you next week. Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

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For a few hours, John's sleep was peaceful. Inevitably, though, the doctor never had a chance to get any true rest. Soon, he groaned, tossing in his sleep, fretfully gripping his blanket. Every time he slept, his mind would taunt him. Not a night had passed since Sherlock's death that John didn't dream of his fall, and it never got any easier. After a time, he woke, eyes flying open, shooting into a sitting position with a strangled cry. His breathing was heavy, and soon he was coughing again, a hand at his chest as he struggled to obtain oxygen.

John's sudden springing up from sleep and coughing attack broke into Sherlock's thoughts. He stopped pacing and went back over to the bed, rubbing John's back again to try and ease the coughing. "Are you alright, John?" he asked when he thought his friend could speak.

"Fine," John managed to wheeze. "I'm fine, Sherlock. I just had a nightmare, is all." He took slow, deep breaths, calming his coughs and settling his racing heart. His body acted on its own, and he leaned back against Sherlock's hand for support and comfort.

When John leaned back, Sherlock fully put his arm around his mid-back to help him stay up. "Another war nightmare?"

John chuckled a bit, roughly, bitterly, sadly. "No," he said. "No, I hardly ever have war nightmares anymore. Another nightmare about your fall, actually."

"Oh...You have those a lot then." It wasn't a question because he could hear in John's voice that they must have become a common occurrence. He felt that pinch in his chest again at the thought of the pain he had caused him. "I'm so sorry, John. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for what I've put you through."

John looked at him, his eyes harsh, yet somehow fond. "Honestly, I think you deserve to feel guilty about it for a while," he said. "You put me through hell, Sherlock. But, I suppose, _eventually_, you're going to have to forgive yourself. After all, you're back now."

So this was what they called guilt. "Yes, I do deserve it," he said bowing his head. "And I will probably always have that guilt, no matter how much time passes. How do you live like this? With all these feelings."

"Well, Sherlock," John sighed. "I'm lucky enough to have had feelings my entire life. I've had plenty of time to get used to them."

"I suppose that's true," Sherlock said with a wry smile. "Are you feeling better after your nap?"

"A bit, yes," John murmured. "I think I might be able to eat something, if I tried. Without throwing it up after." He started to climb out of bed, intent on fixing himself a small meal.

"Oh no you don't," Sherlock said and he pushed him back down into the bed. "I'll make you something. You will stay in bed. Now what would you like?"

John blinked. Sherlock was actually offering to cook for him? This was certainly a nice change. "Something light," he said wisely. "I might not be able to stomach much. Just some toast, for now? Can you manage that without burning anything?" He smiled.

"I think I can manage." He gave John's hand a quick squeeze before heading down into the kitchen. He pulled out two pieces of bread and put them in the toaster. While the bread was toasting, he got a tray and put the butter, a jar of jam, and a knife and plate on it. He also grabbed a new glass and filled it with water. The toast popped up and he put it on the plate, hoping it wasn't too browned, then brought the whole thing back to John's room and set it on the table. "Butter or jam?"

John smiled. He could get used to this pampering. Of course, he didn't expect it to last long. Sherlock would be back to his old self eventually. "Jam," he decided. He sat up slowly, rearranging his pillows so that he could lean back against them and maintain an upright position.

Sherlock took the knife and spread the jam, then handed one piece of toast to John. Then he did the same with the other. "Do you want anything else?" he asked.

John accepted the toast and took slow, measured bites, chewing thoroughly before swallowing. "No, thank you," he said. "You're being remarkably helpful. I'll blame it on the guilt."

Sherlock sat back on the bed next to John. "That is a big part of it. I owe you a lot for what I've done to you." He watched to make sure that John was not on the verge of another cough or vomit fit. His colour was looking better, he wasn't shivering anymore, and the sheen of sweat from that morning was gone. Altogether, he was looking much better.

John glanced at him. "Sherlock, you don't have to look at me like that," he said. "I'm feeling better. I'm not going to suddenly fall over dead, I promise."

"I know...Not from this..." Sherlock couldn't help but look to the window again before looking back at John.

John frowned, following Sherlock's gaze. "You're scared," he said. "You're worried about Moriarty's men, aren't you?"

Sherlock sighed. "They are a constant threat," he said. "I don't know how long it will be before they realise that we're in contact. Your life is in danger and...I can't stand the thought of losing you." He put his hand on John's again and held his gaze.

John sighed heavily, setting down his toast. His appetite was slipping away bit by bit. "Sherlock, we can handle them," he said. "I've been held at gunpoint while strapped to explosives before, and we figured a way out of it. We'll be fine."

"That was far too close!" Sherlock said fiercely. "You shouldn't be at stake because of my quarrels with a psychopath and his deranged followers. You deserve so much better than a life endangered because of your association with me."

"Oh?" John said. "And what was I before that, before I met you? A miserable war veteran with a psychosomatic limp and PTSD, who suffered from nightmares. That was no way to live. This life is much better."

"You would have improved with time and you would have been safe!" Sherlock argued. "If Moriarty's men do reach you, do...what they have wanted to do since that day, then what? Is that so much better than a safe life happy with all the normal people of London?"

"Improved?" John said skeptically. "No, I wouldn't have. I never would have improved. I wasn't showing any improvement whatsoever, and then suddenly, Sherlock, I met you, and I was all fixed up. And then once you died, I was messed up again."

"John..." Sherlock didn't know what else to say.

"So I don't need you to be trying to make these decisions for me," John said. "I'm a grown man, Sherlock. You can't try to tell me what's best for me, understand?"

Sherlock quirked his mouth to the side, frustrated. "It's not just best for you. It's best for me too. Because if anything happens to you, I have nothing left to live for!"

"Damn it, Sherlock, nothing's going to happen to me!" John said, and started to cough. He was getting worked up, which was aggravating his illness. "I want to be your best friend, and I want to face everything together with you, and no matter what you say, you're not getting rid of me!"

When John started to cough, Sherlock stopped himself from saying any more. "John...I'm sorry. You know that you are my best friend, my only friend. But it's because of that that I'm so worried. I care so much about you...I..." He inhaled slowly to try and calm himself. He felt like something was welling up in his throat and he coughed to clear it out.

John frowned, then, reaching out to grip Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to upset you. But I really am going to be fine, Sherlock. I promise. Nothing's going to happen to me."

Sherlock smiled a little. "I know. You are entirely capable of looking out for yourself. I'm just overreacting. Guilt and my other newfound feelings and all that..."

"Why did you help me?" John asked. "You knew it would break your cover. I collapsed in the middle of the street, Sherlock, I'm sure someone would have helped me, or called an ambulance. But you intervened. Why?"

"It's something I'm still a bit confused about myself. Do you mind if I think out loud for a moment?" But Sherlock stood from the bed without an answer and began pacing. "The moment that I saw you collapse, I had thought about the fact that I would blow my cover. I knew it was a risk, especially since you were still somewhat lucid so I might not have been able to slip away without you realising that I had been here. But it seemed in that moment to pale in comparison with my desire to be sure that you were alright. People would have called an ambulance but that could have taken longer than it would have to for me to just bring you to Baker Street myself. I knew by your condition that you weren't in need of professional care anyway, and I thought that if I couldn't do what needed to be done, at least Mrs. Hudson would know what to do. Of course that would alert her as well to the fact that I was alive, but in that moment, that didn't matter at all. Now if it had been Mrs. Hudson then I still would have been worried, but not enough to blow my cover. So what is different with you? I suppose it would be the same feelings that caused me to fake my death in the first place. The question is then, what are those feelings?" He paused then, turning and putting a hand on his chin to contemplate John. "You are the person I am closest to in the world. I have to say that I've never felt this way about anyone. I don't really know the way to describe it but based on the little knowledge that I have about emotions perhaps it's...love?"

"L-love?" John stammered, nearly choking on the word. His heart pounded. How in the world had the detective arrived at that particular conclusion? John hadn't even been aware that the world _love _was a part of Sherlock's vocabulary. It excited him, and scared him a bit at the same time, because he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about his friend. "Sherlock, don't be hasty to throw out a word like that. I really don't think that's your area of expertise, no offence."

"Well, as I said, I'm not sure myself. It is something I am unfamiliar with but...it might be possible. I don't know." Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to think. "I know that my feelings for you are very strong, but that is all I know."

"I see..." John murmured. "Well...I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't exactly...I mean, I don't know..." He sighed. He was rambling, stumbling over his words. "I'm not sure if I feel the same way. I've never really thought about you like that..."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, time and again you have clearly stated that you are not gay. But I'm not even certain that it is that kind of love. It is a possibility still, however. But there are different kinds of love, right, John?"

"Yes..." John said slowly. "There are. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm just confused." He laid back, exhausted. "You using the word love is probably more shocking than you being alive."

"No, I should be sorry, John. I'm causing you to stress yourself out when you're still not feeling well. And don't worry, I'm quite confused myself." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "It's been very different, caring about people. Mycroft always said it was disadvantageous. And perhaps in some ways it is. But in other ways, it really is a nice feeling."

"Don't worry," John told him. "You'll get used to it, eventually." He coughed softly, curling up on his side. He still felt wretched, but not nearly as wretched as before.

Sherlock rubbed John's back again soothingly as he coughed. "You should probably get some more rest. You're still not completely well." He tucked the blankets up around the doctor.

John shivered, but when Sherlock covered him, he nestled down into the blankets with a yawn. He was drowsy and warm. The strangest desire came unbidden to the front of his mind. "Sherlock, will you lie down with me?" he requested.

Sherlock found himself a bit surprised at the request, and even more surprised when he realised how much he liked the idea. Instead of answering, he did as John asked and stretched himself out on the bed next to him.

John rolled over and pressed close to Sherlock's side, pillowing his head on the man's chest. Happily, he sighed. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so comfortable.

Sherlock shifted closer, allowing John to more easily lay on top of him. The arm that was under his friend curled up so that he could reach his hair, and he let his fingers run through it. His other arm fell around John's torso, pulling him in as close as possible. He felt heat crawling up to his cheeks and was made very aware of every point of contact between him and John. "Comfortable?" he asked, glad that John couldn't see his face at the moment.

"Mmm, yes," John hummed, pleased. "Very much so. You make a rather good pillow, Sherlock." He yawned widely once more, letting his exhaustion pull him under. He could feel the steady thrum of Sherlock's heart against his cheek, and it reassured him.

"Sleep well, John," Sherlock whispered as the man on top of him yawned again. It wasn't long before John was peacefully sleeping, his breathing steady. Sherlock watched him, chest rising and falling gently. He started to think again about what they had been talking about. Love. That emotion had always been a strange otherworldly thing to him, definitely not something he had ever thought himself capable of. He knew he had never loved anyone. No one in his entire life had made him feel anything akin to this 'love', not even his own brother. He didn't mind so much the thought of life without Mycroft, or even Mrs. Hudson. In reality, if he was truly honest with himself, his actions the day of 'the fall' were only to save John. Had John not been a target, then he might have just let them die. What made John so different? Why did John make him care?

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Ooooo, what could possibly happen next? If you want to find out, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	3. An Old New Enemy

Alright! Here comes some action and excitement! :D By the way, I just want to thank everyone who has favourited and followed the story over the past week. You guys are so awesome! I was thinking that maybe I would change and update Monday and Friday every week. If you guys would like that then leave me a review and tell me, I will certainly do it for you :D And now I'm not going to take anymore of your time. Not to mention that I have a paper to write (a Holmes-themed one no less XD) Please enjoy this chapter and I'll see you soon! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see the first chapter AN. Thank you!**

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John slept quite peacefully this time, his nightmares not disturbing him for the first time in years. When he woke, he felt lethargic, and warm, and sighed at the weight of Sherlock's arms around him. His head was clearer and his lungs no longer burned with the urge to cough. Overall, he felt immensely better. Slowly, he extracted himself from the detective's embrace and sat up, stretching his sore muscles.

Sherlock had dozed off at some point, but the gentle movement of John sitting himself up roused him. In reality, he had been quite tired after running around as a vigilante, and probably needed much more than a few hours' sleep to rest his weary body. He blinked his eyes open groggily. "Feeling better?" he asked through a yawn.

John smiled softly. "Yes," he said. "Much better, actually. I suppose I have you to thank for that." On a whim, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Sherlock's cheek. But when he sat back and realised what he'd done, his face turned bright red from embarrassment.

Sherlock touched the spot on his cheek where John had kissed him and he felt blush spreading over his features to match John's. "Um...W-well, you're quite welcome, John," he stuttered out. Though his blush faded he still felt a prickle of heat at the spot where John's lips had made contact.

John cleared his throat, awkwardly averting his eyes. "Ah...sorry about that," he said. "Think I'll take a shower." He climbed hurriedly out of bed and padded across the flat to the bathroom, where he quickly shut and locked the door. He'd just kissed Sherlock. Not on the lips, of course, but still, it had been a kiss! What had come over him? Frowning, he started the shower, waiting for the water to be scalding before stepping in. He needed to clear his head.

"Right...Yes, good," Sherlock said as John hurried out of the room. He was still in shock that he had been kissed. After what they were just talking about and his friend's insistence that he was not gay, the behaviour was highly unexpected. That didn't mean, however, that it was unwelcome. But perhaps it was just because John was still not completely himself. Sickness did that to people. Sherlock got up, deciding to play a little violin to relax himself.

John emerged from the shower nearly half an hour later, thoroughly clean, but still just as confused as before. He wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to his bedroom to fetch some fresh clothes. The sounds of Sherlock's violin drifting up the stairs made him smile. But then he stopped, shivering. It was rather chilly. The window hadn't been open before, had it? No, John distinctly remembered closing and latching it...

Sherlock was letting his thoughts flow out through the strings, making a beautiful flowing melody that he made a mental note to write down some day. He heard distantly when the shower turned off and John walked over to the bedroom again. He continued to play, figuring that John would come downstairs once he was dressed. But after a few minutes, there was no sound of him coming down the stairs. Sherlock cut off his song. Something wasn't right.

The detective went to the bottom of the stairs. "John?" There was no response. His heart jumped. "John?" He started up the stairs and into the bedroom. "John!" But room was empty, window open. He jumped across the room and looked at the windowsill. Scuff marks had been left showing where someone had been pulled out. "Dammit!" He slammed his hands down on the sill and backed up into the room then ran down to his own. Nothing had been touched since he had been in it last and he grabbed his spare gun from the drawer. Then he went back up to John's room, intent on following the path of the kidnappers when he noticed a note on the bed. _Where we first met, though you couldn't see __me_. He knew immediately where the kidnapper had taken John. Sprinting back down the stairs, he bolted out of the flat, mapping the fastest route to the pool in his head.

**I.:.O.:.U**

John wasn't sure where he was when he next woke. He remembered leaning over to close the window, and then nothing. His head was spinning, and his body felt heavy and lethargic, as if he'd been drugged. His wrists were tied behind his back; after an experimental tug, John realised that the bonds were most likely too tight to slip. Oh, God. He'd been kidnapped, right out from under Sherlock's nose. The detective would be out of his mind with frustration. John would be sure to insist it wasn't his fault...if he ever saw him again.

The pungent scent of chlorine hit John's nose next. Suddenly, he knew where he was. The pool. The last of Moriarty's web had captured him, just as Sherlock had feared, because certainly only someone working for Moriarty would know the significance of this location.

"You're finally awake, Doctor Watson," a voice said, and a man approached from the opposite side of the pool. John's vision cleared enough that he could make out his features, but he didn't recognise him. "Sebastian Moran. In case you were wondering. You really need to have the locks on your windows checked."

"What do you want with me?" John demanded, at which Moran chuckled.

"You know that, Doctor," Moran drawled. "You're here so that I can take revenge on Sherlock Holmes, for Jim, and for myself."

**I.:.O.:.U**

Sherlock didn't slow from Baker Street to the pool. His feet pounded the pavement as his heart pounded inside of him. The same thought repeated in his head over and over again. _Please let him be alive!_ He burst into the building, then quieted his steps, sneaking up into the area above the pool where he knew that Sebastian Moran had been hiding the last time that they were here. Down below he saw Moran and John, who was tied to a chair.

"I'm going to kill him, but not before he watches you suffer," Moran said.

"Highly unlikely!" Sherlock shouted, and aimed his gun. "Take one step closer to him and I will blow your brains out."

Moran laughed. In the blink of an eye, he'd pulled out his own gun, aiming it at the center of John's forehead. "I'd say I'm likely to be a faster shot than you are, Sherlock," he said. "But...oh, shooting him isn't enough. For Jim, it wouldn't have been enough." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a step forward and kicked John, chair and all, into the pool. He laughed again and turned his gun on Sherlock as John sank into the water.

"John!" Sherlock shouted when he was kicked into the pool. He looked to where Moran had the gun pointed at him and then to the pool. He made a quick decision, shooting towards Moran even though he knew he wouldn't hit him where he'd like to, and he jumped from the overhang into the pool. The collision with the water was like a slap to the face but he ignored the pain. Swimming down to the floor he grabbed John and pulled him back to the surface so that he could breathe.

Moran grunted as the bullet dug into his shoulder. He stumbled back, scowling. When Sherlock and John broke the surface of the water, John sputtering and vomiting up the water he'd swallowed, Moran turned the gun on them and shot aimlessly.

Sherlock saw that he had hit Moran in the shoulder and he mentally chalked up a point for himself. But when Moran shot at them, he knew they weren't out of the water yet, no pun intended. He tried to pull John and the chair over to the opposite edge of the pool, his head bobbing in and out of the water and chlorine burning in his nose. He finally managed to make it and pushed John and the chair up so that he was laying sideways, then pulled himself out and faced Moran

Moran's last bullet flew, and he felt triumphant when it met John's thigh, and the doctor choked out a cry through his heaving and hacking. He tried to shoot again, this time at Sherlock, and discovered that he was truly out of ammunition. He frantically struggled to reload.

John cried out when a bullet hit him in the thigh but Sherlock didn't turn to look, Moran now aiming at him. He cringed when Moran pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened. He was out of ammo! As the sniper pulled out more and started to reload, Sherlock took the opportunity to kneel down and start to cut the ties holding John to the chair with a pocket knife. "Don't worry," he said, though he was trying to convince himself more than John. The ropes snapped and John's hands were free, and Sherlock scooped him up, taking off at a run.

John curled up in Sherlock's arms, still coughing up mouthfuls of water. Moran got his gun reloaded, finally, and dashed after them, shooting wildly again. "Sherlock!" he roared, furious that his prey was escaping. Soon, he ran out of ammo again, and stopped pursuing them. "This isn't over, Sherlock Holmes!"

Finally the bullets stopped flying, but Sherlock didn't slow down, even when they were out of the building. From there, he dashed down an alley and onto another street, and tried to think of a safe place to go. "John, are you alright?" He had been coughing up a lot of water which dripped down Sherlock's shirt. He wondered if he should take John to St. Bart's because of the bullet wound. Would Moran expect that and follow them? Probably. Where could they go? There was no possibility of returning to Baker Street. He continued running, trying to think.

"Fine," John choked, followed by a few light coughs, expelling the remaining water from his lungs. "I'm fine, Sherlock...Mycroft." He was surprised the detective hadn't thought of it yet. The older Holmes could be reliable, when he wanted to be. "Go to Mycroft..." Though he would lament the loss of his home, he knew they couldn't return to Baker Street. Not now.

"Yes, good idea." In the chaos of the situation he had completely forgotten about his brother. He detoured back around and started for the Diogenes Club, knowing that he would find his brother there. He practically kicked the door in when they arrived. "Mycroft!" he called, ignoring all the shocked men sitting in the front room.

John's breathing was laboured, and his skin was growing clammy. "Sherlock," he gasped, his doctor instincts kicking in. "Sherlock, I'm going into shock. I need to lie down, and I need a blanket."

"Get off of that sofa!" Sherlock commanded to the two men who were sitting there. They scrambled up and out of the way and Sherlock laid John down gently. "Someone get me a blanket. MYCROFT!" At the second call, Mycroft Holmes finally came in the room.

"What's going on? Sherlock, what are you doing here?" He looked from Sherlock, to John and his wounded leg and understood. "Well, is everyone going to stand around watching? Get a blanket!"

Sherlock leaned over John, smoothing his hair back. "It's going to be alright. You're going to have to tell me what I need to do about your leg."

John checked his own pulse. It was rapid and thready. "I would prefer you get a professional surgeon to take care of the bullet wound, Sherlock," he said honestly. "No offence, really, but your medical expertise..."

Sherlock frowned, not wanting to wait for a surgeon to get there, but he knew that John was probably right. "Mycroft," he said.

"Yes, of course." Mycroft pulled out his phone and dialed a number, then held the phone to his ear. "I require your services at the Diogenes Club...A bullet wound...See you soon."

Someone finally brought the blanket and Sherlock tucked it around John. "How do you feel, John?"

"Cold," John murmured. "My pulse is rapid...clammy skin...breathing is shallow..." He paused, his stomach flipping with nausea. "Sherlock, you need to put pressure on the wound. Also, find a belt, or a rope, and tie a tourniquet around my leg above the wound. And I need fluids. I'm going to dehydrate..."

"Did you all hear that? Someone take off your belt. Get a pitcher of water and a glass." One man came forward with his belt and another left the room for the water. Sherlock pulled the belt tightly around John's thigh and then pressed the heel of his hand to the hole where the bullet went in. The man with the water returned and poured out some for John, holding it to his lips for him to drink. "Anything else?"

John gratefully drank the water the man offered, in small, careful sips. When he was done, he gasped. "No, that's it..." he breathed. "Just keep me awake, Sherlock. The best way is to keep me talking. Talk to me about something. Anything..." He focused on trying to slow his breathing.

Sherlock, normally never at a loss for words, was coming up blank. "Ah...Tell me about some things you've done since I left." He knew that the topic was probably not one John wanted to talk about, but he couldn't think of anything else.

"Nothing," John told him. "I haven't done anything. I do the same thing every day; I just get up and go to work. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson and I will go out for dinner, or I'll go to the pub with Lestrade. I haven't been very good company, though." His pulse was not only rapid, now, but weakening. "Sherlock, elevate my legs," he instructed. "Just a bit. Prop them up on a pillow or something."

"Pillow!" Sherlock demanded and one of the men grabbed a cushion from a chair. He propped it under John's legs. "Stay with me, John. What's going on in Lestrade's life?" It seemed almost comical, making random chatter in the middle of a crisis.

"I don't know...we didn't talk much," John mumbled. "Not about him. He always wanted to talk about how I felt. I didn't want to...talk about...how I...felt..." With each word he was slipping a little further away, closer to unconsciousness.

"John, please! Please, don't leave me!" But he could see that John was rapidly declining. "Mycroft!" He turned to his brother who knelt next to him. "Take over for me." Mycroft nodded and pressed his hand where Sherlock's was. Sherlock then crawled over to John's face, grabbing it in both of his hands. "John, stay with me. Tell me about the solar system! Say something, anything!"

"The earth goes round the Sun, Sherlock..." John mumbled. "Do you still not know that? It really is important..." He forced his tired eyes to open and stared at Sherlock.

"I told you, I deleted it. But I'll remember it for you if you just stay awake!" Sherlock felt that choking feeling in his throat that he had before, and he couldn't stop it. Tears were forming in his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had truly cried, or if he ever had in the first place, but he didn't bother to try to fight it. "John, please!" The doctor's eyes were looking hazy but he couldn't tell if that was the blur from the tears or if he was close to losing consciousness. Sherlock didn't know what to do, or if there was anything he could do. Suddenly, he felt an impulse run through him and he acted on it. He leaned down and pressed his lips firmly to John's.

John's lips were cold against Sherlock's. Somewhere in his mind, he registered that he'd just been kissed. Kissed, on the lips, by Sherlock Holmes. But his mind shut down soon after, and he dropped away into unconsciousness. The surgeon arrived only moments after John had fainted, and rushed over, pulling both Sherlock and Mycroft away from him. He needed room to work.

* * *

Hanging on the edge of your seat? If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	4. Love and Arguments

So I've decided to update Monday and Friday from now on, and since today is Friday, it's time for an update :D I don't really have much to say besides that so I'll just shut up and let you guys enjoy. Also, real quick, thank you for all the faves and follows over the past few days. You don't know how much I love that you love this story ^^ Okay, now I'll shut up. Enjoy the story. Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

Sherlock wanted to stay, but Mycroft was pulling him into another room. He struggled against him the whole way, but eventually, Mycroft had the door closed and Sherlock in the room across the hall. He locked them in and stood against the door while Sherlock paced rapidly, hands in his hair.

"He'll be alright, Sherlock. I've gotten you the best surgeon in the country."

"No, this is all my fault! I never should have helped him. Oh my God, what have I done!"

"Calm down and tell me everything," Mycroft said.

Sherlock explained everything that had happened since he saw John leave Baker Street in the rain to the moment they came into the Diogenes Club. Mycroft listened, his face grave. When Sherlock had finished, he said, "I told you that caring would be a problem."

"Well it's too late for that!" Sherlock snapped. "What are we going to do now?"

"I can arrange you transport out of the country, but it will have to wait until John's leg has fully recovered. In the meantime, you can stay in the safe house underground here."

"When did you build a safe house?" Sherlock asked.

"After you left. I thought that they might suspect that I knew you were faking and that they would come for me. I had two built, actually. There is another under my own house."

Just then, there was a knock at the door and Mycroft unlocked it to find the surgeon standing there.

"He's stable," the surgeon said, strolling into the room and peeling off blood-stained medical gloves. He balled them up in his hand. "I retrieved the bullet from the wound, sterilised it, and stitched it shut before bandaging it. I've given him an IV drip of a saline solution to replace lost fluids. He needs rest, though. Plenty of rest. And eventually, some light rehabilitation for his leg. He may have a slight limp for some time."

Sherlock felt guilt well in his stomach at the thought of John limping again, not just from a psychological problem. Mycroft shook the surgeon's hand, thanking him, and Sherlock exited the room and went back to where John was still lying on the sofa. His breathing was regular again and Sherlock knelt down, leaning his head on his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders at the sound, but it landed on him again at the sight of the IV and the bandage. "John..." He took one of his limp hands in both of his. "I am so sorry, John. But I am going to make this right. I promise." He kissed him on the forehead.

**I.:.O.:.U**

It was some time before John finally woke, blinking into awareness. He groaned and tried to sit up, but the pain that shot up his leg stopped him. "Sherlock?" he rasped, turning his head in search of the man. His lips tingled with the memory of a kiss, but it was entirely possible that he'd dreamed it...

Sherlock was sitting across from Mycroft when he heard his name. His heart jumped when he saw John had his eyes open. "John!" He practically leaped over to the doctor's side and took one of his hands, stroking his hair with the other. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Sherlock, I'm fine," John assured him. "My leg is just a little sore. But I've had a gunshot wound before, remember? I can handle it." He turned his gaze to Mycroft. "Thank you," he said. "For your help."

Mycroft nodded. "Certainly," he said. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make a few calls." He smiled, almost cheekily, and exited the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock only glanced back momentarily as he left before giving his full attention back to John.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. He kept looking over John's face, just glad to see his eyes open again and looking back at him.

John stared at him for a while, silent, forgetting that Sherlock had just asked him a question, and he should probably respond. "Did you kiss me?" he blurted. "Before I passed out...? Or, was that a dream?"

Sherlock blinked as he remembered his actions right before John had lost consciousness. "Oh...Well, I...I'm sorry, you must understand I was a bit frazzled. I know that you...don't feel that way. But I was desperate for you to stay awake." He cast his eyes down to try and hide the flush filling his face.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John assured him. "I'm not angry. You just...took me by surprise, is all. You've been doing that a lot, lately."

"I apologise again," he said, looking back into John's eyes. "All I've done since I came back is cause you undue stress."

"Well...yes, that's actually true," John said. "You've caused me quite a lot of stress, actually, but I don't particularly care. It's part of your charm, and I'm still glad you're back."

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't know much about charming people, but something tells me that endangering the life of a l-...of someone you care strongly for isn't considered charming by the normal social standards."

John paused. "Of a loved one," he said. "You were going to say, 'of a loved one'. You're serious about this, aren't you?" He reached out to experimentally cup Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock tilted his head unconsciously into John's hand. "I...I am. I don't think there is any other way for me to describe the way I feel for you, John." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "It's so strong, so deep. I feel as though I cannot be myself without you. That's why if anything were to happen to you, I wouldn't be able to go on. You have become so much a part of me..."

John stared at him, completely breathless. He leaned forward and caught Sherlock's lips with his own. Something about the kiss felt right. Their mouths melded together perfectly, John's rough, cool lips against Sherlock's, smooth and warm.

Sherlock was shocked when John kissed him, but he relaxed quickly, loving the feeling of John's mouth against his. He pressed in closer, wanting John to understand all that he felt and could not express with words.

John pulled away several long moments later, gasping. "Oh..." he breathed, pleasantly surprised. "Well, Sherlock...I didn't expect you to be so...good at that."

"You also didn't expect me to have a good bedside manner," he laughed lightly. He looked into John's eyes silently for a moment, then swallowed. "I love you, John."

The words sprang to John's lips unbidden, but he knew they were completely true, and completely right. "I love you, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled as a new feeling bubbled up inside of him: happiness. And truly, he had never felt happier in his life. He leaned in again and pressed another kiss to John's lips. "I guess this means you are gay after all?" he teased as he pulled away.

"No," John said thoughtfully. "No, I don't think I am. I think I'm still very straight, actually." He smiled, amused. "It's just you, Sherlock. Only you."

"Well then I suppose I should consider myself special," he said with a grin. He rested his forehead against John's. "Just promise that you won't go running off with anymore girls."

"I won't," John chuckled. "And you are special. Very special." He sighed, breath ghosting against Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, could I have some water?"

"Of course." Sherlock got up and poured out some from the pitcher they left on the table. He brought the glass back to John and put an arm under him to help him sit up a bit and drink.

John drank carefully, gently gripping Sherlock's wrist when he'd had enough and pulling his hand away. "Thank you," he murmured, looking up at Sherlock. He gave the detective a reassuring smile. "So, what did the surgeon say? About my leg?"

"He said you're going to need rest and some rehabilitation. And..." Sherlock didn't know if he wanted to tell John the last part, but he figured he would find out anyway. "He said you might limp again."

John paused at that for a moment, his face showing shock, and sadness, and a brief flash of desperation. Then he sighed, and his expression settled into one of resign. "I should have expected that, I guess. You kept my cane, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sorry, John. I know how frustrating it must be."

The doctor shook his head. "No, it's not that bad," he said. "A limp is nothing. I saw so many men in Afghanistan with worse wounds, who lost their legs completely. I can't complain about a limp."

Sherlock nodded again, though he knew that it probably still bothered John, even just slightly. "I am going to help you in any way that I can," he said, and he took one of John's hands again, lacing their fingers together.

John blinked down at their joined hands and blushed. That was something he was going to have to get used to. "It's fine, Sherlock," he said. "I'm sure you'll contradict me, but none of this is your fault in any way. Don't blame yourself, and don't try to make it up to me. You're allowed to forgive yourself now."

"But I won't," Sherlock said. "Technically it is all because of me that this has happened, so although you would like me not to, I am going to take the blame and I am going to make it up to you somehow."

John huffed, irritated. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, firmly. "If you want to make it up to me, you will do so by not blaming yourself. Do you understand me?"

John's tone was sharp and Sherlock knew that he wasn't going to be able to argue. And if that was what John really wanted, he would do it for him, although it would be hard. "Alright, John. No more blaming myself."

John smiled, seeming genuinely pleased with the detective's answer. "Good," he hummed. "That's all I wanted to hear." He leaned forward and gave Sherlock a soft kiss. "So where are we living now? I realise we can't go back to Baker Street..."

"Unfortunately," Sherlock said, quirking his mouth. "Mycroft said that we can stay in the safe house he built under the club. Then he can arrange for us to leave the country secretly." He sighed. "I know this is going to be hard to adjust to...Mycroft can send someone to Baker Street tonight to get anything you might need."

"Leave the country?" John said, eyes widening. "Sherlock, I...I know it's dangerous, but I don't want to leave the country. My entire life is here in London. You honestly can't expect me to just relocate."

"It would be a temporary situation, until I can finish what I started. Until those last three of Moriarty's men are taken down." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "It isn't an ideal situation, but it is necessary. For now. I promise someday we can return to Baker Street and everything will return to normal. Consider this a...holiday."

"A holiday?" John said, heatedly. "Let me guess. On this holiday, I'll be alone while you run around trying to take care of these three men. I'll be constantly worrying whether you're all right; I'll have no contact with Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or any of my friends here in London. Is that right? Is that what this holiday will be like?"

"Would you rather stay here and die?" Sherlock snapped. "I can't let this go unfinished. Moran and the others need to be eliminated, and now you're not going to be able to keep up so you obviously can't come with me to help. And if you made contact with anyone it could compromise the whole situation. We can't take any risks."

"This is bloody ridiculous!" John barked. "You have no right to say we can't take any risks, when you're the one who took the risk that got us into this mess in the first place!" He wondered why his anger was getting away from him. He didn't blame Sherlock; he really _didn't_. But the thought of leaving his home and his friends behind was too much for him. "Maybe I'm all you have, Sherlock, but there are other people in my life besides _you_, people who are very important to me, and I can't just cut myself off from them!"

For some reason the comment about John being all he had stung. It was true, there was no one else in the world who mattered as much to him. But the way he had said it was almost like he resented it. "Well, fine then. We'll just go back to Baker Street and wait for them to come and kill us! Or better yet, I'll just go face them right now and let them kill me and you'll be free to be with your friends without any more persecution."

"Damn it, Sherlock, you _know _that's not what I want!" John shouted. He groaned, pressing a hand against his forehead. "In the past three days I've collapsed from illness, discovered my best friend is alive, been kidnapped, drowned, and shot, and realised I'm in love with the most irritating bloke on the planet! The last thing I want to think about is having to flee the country!"

"Well, I'm not seeing many other viable options!" Sherlock shouted back. "Moran is still out there waiting and if he finds us, it's over! What do you want me to tell you?" He looked John in the eye, heaving with frustration. "Things are not going to be normal for a while. I'm sorry I dragged you into this but now that you're here it's too late to turn back and I'm not letting you die because I was reckless. I don't see any other way."

John looked away, teeth clenched tightly in frustration. "Go away," he muttered. "Just...leave me alone for a little while. I need to think." He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath and focusing on calming himself down. No one could ever make him quite as angry as Sherlock managed to. It was a gift of the detective's, he supposed.

Sherlock felt a tightness in his throat but he nodded, leaving the room. Mycroft was standing outside the door and by his face he could tell he had heard everything.

"This is what I warned you about, dear brother," Mycroft said.

"Oh, piss off!" Sherlock snapped.

"It's true, though. And now you are emotionally compromised. I should have known that letting this Dr. Watson get close to you was a bad idea from the start. There was something different from the beginning and it's only led to danger."

"I don't care. John is the best thing that's ever happened to me." And he was entirely surprised to find that those words were true. If he had to choose between a caseless life with John and always having a case but being alone, he knew exactly what he would choose.

Mycroft grimaced at the words. "You've changed so much, Sherlock."

"For the better," he said firmly. He realised then what he had to do. Turning on his heel, he exited the Diogenes Club. He was going to find Moran and he was going to finish this once and for all.

* * *

Uh oh. John won't like this. If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	5. A Win and a New Game

Yay! This chapter is a bit longer, aaaaaand, there's a special surprise ;] I won't give any spoilers, so if you want to know, go read it for yourself. ;p THank you to anyone who has read the story so far, all followers and reviewers. Sorry that I don't get to thank each of you individually, I just don't have as much time as I used to T_T I hope that it's alright that I do a communal thanks in my ANs, because I really do appreciate all of you (I give you all virtual hugs). So, I guess that's all. Hope you enjoy, as always, and I'll see you on Friday! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

It was a while before John eventually calmed. He sighed and sat up. "Sherlock?" he called, but received no answer. He frowned and grabbed his cellphone. 'Sherlock,' he typed into a new message. 'I'm sorry. -JW' He laid back and waited for the consulting detective to respond.

Meanwhile, Moran sat, waiting for his prey. He knew perfectly well that Sherlock would come for him eventually. 'I knew you couldn't stay away. Meet me on the rooftop where Jim's blood stains the stone. -SM'

Sherlock didn't know where to start until he received this message from the unknown number. He unlocked his phone and read. "Perfect," he said with a grim smile as he rerouted for St. Bart's. Another message buzzed on his phone a moment later and he saw it was from John. Sherlock sighed sadly. He wanted to go back and run away and abandon this ridiculous chase but he knew John was right. They couldn't just skip out of the country. They had to face this. He had to face this. Sherlock opened a reply message and typed, 'I love you, John. -SH' before turning off his phone and pocketing it. He didn't know who was going to die this time, but he knew that either way, John would finally be safe. And that was all that he wanted anymore.

John frowned at the reply. It was straightforward, but somehow frustratingly vague. 'I love you, too. Where are you? -JW' He waited, and when he received no reply, he persisted.

'Sherlock, come back -JW'

'Sherlock -JW'

'Sherlock, I'm serious. Where are you? -JW'

Finally, he closed his phone, heart clenching with worry. "Mycroft!" he cried.

**I.:.O.:.U**

Sherlock made it St. Bart's and went straight to the stairwell. He walked determinedly up each flight until he finally reached the roof. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out. He suddenly had flashbacks of that day, of the fall itself, and he swallowed hard. "Alright. I'm here."

Sebastian Moran looked up, smirking. He sat on the edge of the rooftop, in a perfect imitation of how Jim had sat that day. "Good to see you again, Mister Holmes," he said. "How is Doctor Watson doing?"

"That's none of your business," Sherlock said, stepping towards Moran. He slowly inched his hand towards his pocket, hoping his movements would go unnoticed. He only hoped that his gun was dry enough after jumping in the pool. "And he'll be a lot better once we're through here."

"Oh, that depends," Sebastian hummed, crossing his legs. "If I die, yes, I suppose he'll be better off. But if I kill you...well, won't he just be heartbroken? I was watching him even before you revealed yourself, Sherlock. He fell to pieces without you. It was touching, really."

Guilt bubbled in his stomach but he ignored it. "John is a strong person. He survived once and he can survive again." Sherlock's hand was almost to the opening of his coat pocket. Just a bit more...

"Are you going to shoot me, Sherlock?" Moran tutted. "Are you sure you can pull your gun faster than I can pull mine?"

Sherlock cursed inwardly at Moran's observation. He could see that Moran's hands were already tensed to pull his gun out. He needed a distraction, but what?

Moran smiled. "Smart, Sherlock. I think deep down, you know this isn't going to end well for you. I'm sure the good doctor is already on his way. Now...should I wait to kill you until he gets here, or just leave your dead body as a little reward for how very stupid and determined he is?"

"John doesn't know where we are," Sherlock said, but his gut told him that wouldn't last long. Moran was right that John was determined, and stupidly so. He wouldn't just sit back if he thought that Sherlock was in danger, even though he was still injured. And he was clever enough to figure out where they were eventually. He started to walk sideways, not taking his eyes off of Moran. "But I suppose the choice is up to you. What would Jim have done?"

"He would have found a very clever way to turn this all in his favour, and make you suffer," Sebastian said. "But I'm not as clever as Jim. I never have been." He kept his eyes on Sherlock, sharp and calculating. A cab pulled up to the curb on the street below. "Oh, there's the good doctor now."

**I.:.O.:.U**

Mycroft heard John's cry and entered the room. "He left," he said simply. "He's trying to save your life, I'm sure."

"What?" John gasped. "No! Oh, that idiot!" He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the couch. "Someone bring me some crutches, or a cane! Right now!" He couldn't let Sherlock run off and be a martyr again. Not for his sake.

Mycroft sent one of his boys to find a cane for John. Then he turned back to the injured doctor, furrowing his brow. "You know, John, when you first started your acquaintance with my brother, I had half expected you to leave after a week. But then a week passed and then two, and then a month. And you continued to stay by him, despite his habits and personality. I never quite understood, nor do I yet understand, what it is that draws the two of you together." He paused thoughtfully. "But it is obvious that for better or worse, you will always find your way back to each other." When the boy returned with the cane, he brought it over to John and handed it to him. "Treat him well, Doctor."

"I wouldn't treat him any other way," John grunted. He gripped the cane and pushed himself to his feet. For a moment, the pain in his leg was so intense that he thought he might collapse. But he clenched his teeth and overcame it. "Any idea where they might be?"

"Not a clue. He left without a word," Mycroft said. "But I'm sure if you think hard enough that you can get a good idea of where to check. I would suggest somewhere significant seeing as he brought you to that pool from 'The Great Game' story on your blog."

John frowned, searching his memory as he limped out of the club. The Great Game. Their first encounter with Moriarty. And the next was...the story John had never covered in his blog. The Fall. He'd never been able to bring himself to write about it in detail, but it was still significant. As realisation set in, he hailed a cab for St. Bart's.

**I.:.O.:.U**

Sherlock made it over to the edge with his side-walking and he leaned over without taking his eyes off of Moran. "John, stay down there!" he shouted below. "You shouldn't be here!" Luckily, he realised he had his chance. Leaning the way he was, his coat blocked the view of his hand from Moran and he was able to take out his gun without showing any movement. But he couldn't make his move just yet. It wasn't the right moment.

John, of course, disobeyed. This scenario was far too familiar for his tastes, and he wasn't about to let history repeat itself. He made his way inside and headed for the stairs. With his injured leg, it was going to be quite the hike.

"Seems your pet needs to go back to obedience school," Moran tsked. "He can't follow orders at all. Pity, considering his military background. He should be such a good little soldier."

Sherlock knew of course that John wouldn't listen to him, but he had to try. As John limped into the building, Sherlock stayed leaned over, glancing down at the pavement and feeling a sensation of de ja vu. "He's also a doctor," he said. "And a good doctor knows that sometimes disobeying makes the difference between life and death." Sherlock suddenly whipped the gun out, aimed, and shot in an instant before ducking down and bolting behind one of the silver ventilation units.

Moran dodged, and shot wildly, cursing when Sherlock ducked out of the way. "You can't hide forever, Holmes!" he hissed. "You'll have to come out and play eventually..."

Sherlock peeked out from around the vent and shot, somersaulting across to another vent while Moran was distracted. He didn't know what his strategy was except to try to make his nemesis shoot until he ran out of ammunition again. He only hoped that John being slightly incapacitated would allow him some extra time.

Moran usually prided himself on his marksmanship, but Sherlock was quick. He shot until he was once again out of bullets, and started to reload quickly. The door to the roof burst open, and John limped out.

Sherlock heard the roof door open and knew he was out of time. "Get down, John!" he cried as he stood up and took aim at Moran who was busy reloading. This would be the shot to end it all. He pulled the trigger and almost could see the bullet whizzing in slow motion straight at Moran's head.

The bullet hit dead center, right in the middle of Moran's forehead, and the man crumpled bonelessly. John felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. It was over. Moran was dead. He and Sherlock didn't have to flee anymore. That was it.

And then, from behind John, came a slow, deliberate clapping, and a smooth laugh. A shiver ran up John's spine.

Sherlock couldn't help a goofy grin when he saw Moran fall, blood leaking from the hole in his forehead. They were safe at last! He turned his smile to John but froze when he saw a shadowy figure behind him. It clapped and laughed and he recognised the voice immediately. "I should have known..." he whispered to himself.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock, I'm sure you did all along," sang Jim Moriarty. "You were just hoping that you were wrong. But you should know better than that." Sherlock brought his arm around and aimed the gun at the shadow that was the consulting criminal.

"No, no, Sherlock," Jim purred. "I think you know better than that, too. Why aim a gun at me when I'm so close to Johnny boy, here?" He gripped the back of John's neck, holding him still. "Lovely cane, Doctor Watson. The perfect accessory. It really suits you." He gave John a light shove, making him stumble forward onto the roof, but he kept a grip on the man's neck.

Sherlock looked at said cane, and then into John's eyes, willing him to understand. Wait for the right moment. "Been keeping entertained, Jim? Your men have certainly kept me busy lately." He didn't lower the gun but he didn't move an inch.

"Oh, I know," Jim sighed. "They've done a good job. But no, I really haven't been entertained at all. Being dead is exceedingly boring. I'm sure you can understand how I feel, Sherlock." He moved across the roof, dragging John along with him, to where Moran's body lay. "Oh, Seb..." he mumbled, crouching down and touching the man's cold cheek. He closed his eyelids. "Pity. I was rather fond of this one."

The click of Sherlock's gun made Jim open his eyes again and jump up. "Oh, that wasn't very smart was it? Tsk, tsk, I'm losing my touch." Jim pushed John along until the doctor was an inch away from Sherlock. "I might just let you share a goodbye kiss, Sherly. If you're good." He winked.

Sherlock kept his face impassive. "I don't see any laser targets anywhere. Are you alone?" he asked. "What will happen that might stop me from shooting you right now."

"Oh, snipers are soooo three years ago!" Jim crooned. "Besides, you just shot my best marksman! No, I was feeling even more nostalgic than that, Sherly. This whole building is rigged to blow, should I hit this little button here." He lifted his other hand, revealing a detonator. "Isn't that exciting?"

"Extremely," Sherlock said. His eyes flickered to meet John's for a moment. He could tell that the doctor was thinking about all the innocent, sickly people in the hospital below them. It didn't bother him much, but he knew that John cared about these innocent lives and that made him care, only for his sake. He looked back at Jim. "Still, if I were to shoot you, you wouldn't be able to hit that button. It would be a matter of you being faster than me."

"We both know I _am _faster than you, Sherlock," Jim said. "But just in case, I do have someone else, with another detonator. I always have back up. You know that!" He grinned. "But I'm not really interested in killing you today. I just wanted to say hi. I've really missed you, Sherlock." His grip tightened on the back of John's neck. "And you, too, Johnny boy!"

"Something tells me you're not being completely honest. The last time you left without killing us it wasn't long before you changed your mind. So why are you here then?"

"Don't leave the country," Jim said, his demeanor suddenly entirely serious. "I've missed you, Sherlock. I want you back. I want to play again. So you're going to stick around. Understood?"

Sherlock glanced fleetingly at the hand around John's neck, the warning for what was to come if he disobeyed. "Understood," he said.

"Oh, goody!" Jim said, grinning from ear to ear. "I can't wait to play with you again, Sherlock. Ta-ta!" He kicked John's bad leg and pushed him forward into Sherlock. John stumbled and fell against the detective. Using this as a distraction, Moriarty fled the roof.

Sherlock's arms automatically circled John as he was pushed into him. Before he could look up to aim the gun, Moriarty had disappeared. He nearly growled in frustration, but put the gun back in his pocket and took a deep breath. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking John over.

"Fine," John said, and then pulled back his arm to slap Sherlock across the face. "You idiot! Never go running off like that again without telling me where you're running off to, and especially don't go running to psychopathic killers!"

Sherlock put a hand to his stinging cheek. "Sorry. I thought that this would be easier, plus you weren't exactly speaking with me when I decided to leave."

"It wasn't easier!" John snapped. "I was scared out of my mind for you!" He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "And I'm...sorry, about earlier. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I realise you were doing what you thought was best."

"No, I should be sorry. It wasn't fair of me to expect you to give everything up." Sherlock pulled John into him and held him close, resting his chin on the doctor's shoulder. "It's easy for me to think that way because you are the only one who matters to me," he whispered.

"It's fine," John murmured. "I forgive you." He leaned up, kissing Sherlock softly. When he broke away, he winced. "I need to sit down, Sherlock. My leg hurts. This cane isn't really doing much to support me."

Sherlock smiled. "I've got a better idea." He put his arm behind John's knees and picked him up. "This has been happening a lot lately, hasn't it?" he said as he walked towards the stairwell.

"It has," John agreed, frowning deeply. "I've been doing nothing lately but getting hurt or getting in the way. I'm sorry. I've been a bit of a burden, haven't I? I'll try to start being a little more useful again."

"Shut up. You've just hit a spot of bad luck." Partially because of me, he thought bitterly, but kept it to himself. "But I do not nor will I ever consider you to be a burden." Sherlock kissed John's temple. "Besides, I kind of like this doting nurse thing I've been doing."

"You like it?" John said, blinking. Then he grinned widely, his face nearly splitting in two. "Well, then, by all means, keep doting. I won't stop you."

Seeing John smile the way he did made Sherlock's heart do flips in his chest, and he tightened his grip. "As you wish, love," he said, then blushed a little when he realised he had used the term of endearment. "Ah, we should get back to the club."

"Of course, dear, " John teased, smirking. His stomach filled with butterflies at the sound of the endearment coming from Sherlock's mouth. "Sometime soon, I'm going to need a proper set of crutches. This cane isn't going to work, and I'd rather not be bed-ridden."

"Or I can always carry you," Sherlock said as they started for the club. "Darling," he added as an afterthought.

John hummed thoughtfully. "Sherlock Holmes, carrying me around until I'm strong enough to walk with a cane again? I suppose I'm not opposed to the idea." He turned his face into the fabric of Sherlock's coat, sighing. "But people might talk. Do you want people to know, Sherlock? Obviously Mycroft knows, but I doubt we could have kept it a secret from him if we wanted to. I mean the others. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson."

"I hadn't thought about it." Sherlock considered the three that John had mentioned. "People always talk though. Mrs. Hudson was convinced from the very first day." He looked down at John, curled up in his arms, breathing softly into his chest. What did it matter to him whether or not people knew who he loved? They would probably be too surprised that he loved anyone at all to say anything more on the matter. "I don't care. They can say what they like, think what they want. I've never cared before for anyone else's opinion. But...If you don't want to say anything then we can keep it secret. I'll do whatever you want."

"I don't mind," John said. "They're our friends. I think it's right to tell them. That way at least they won't gossip, they'll actually know. And Mrs. Hudson will be delighted." He smiled, sighing again, happily.

"Yes, she will be. I'm sure they all will be. I know I am." Sherlock pressed another kiss into John's hair. "I suppose that would mean that I'm making my official comeback then. We probably should inform Scotland Yard that there's a dead body on the roof of the hospital. Might as well let them know I'm alive while we're at it. Oh, I can already see the look on Anderson's face." He grinned at the thought.

John threw back his head and laughed. "I'm sure he missed you!" he said. "So you're just going to walk into Scotland Yard carrying me? I'm sure that'll confuse Lestrade to no end. Oh, I'm looking forward to this."

"Indeed. It's too bad we don't have a video camera. Payback for all those pictures of me in a shock blanket."

"No need to worry. I'm sure you'll never forget their faces." John smiled. "We can shock them with a little kiss, too, if you feel like it."

"And you say Mycroft and I are dramatic," Sherlock teased. "But of course, I was thinking the same thing." Soon he was walking through the doors of Scotland Yard and up to the receptionist's desk. "Get me Detective Inspector Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, and anyone else who looks up when you mention the name Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Muahaha, and the real drama begins ;] If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D

By the way, in this chapter Moran was played by my RP buddy, we switched off with Jim, and if I haven't mentioned before, I play Mycroft. :D


	6. The Unofficial Return

Good morning! :D Here is another chapter for all you lovely people. Thanks to anyone who has stopped by the story over the past few days and special thanks to **KL08** for having reviewed three times now. I'm very glad that you're enjoying it ^^ Anyway, I don't have much else to say so I'll let you get to reading. See you Monday! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

The receptionist looked startled, but immediately complied. John just laughed. It was only minutes later that Lestrade hurried in, stopping dead at the sight of Sherlock Holmes. "Jesus," he said. "Sherlock. You're alive."

"You're so much more observant than you used to be, well done. I can explain the details later, but for now I think you should send a few of your men to the rooftop of St. Bart's where you'll find the body of one Sebastian Moran. It appears he's been shot in the head. I'm sure it was self-defence." Anderson, Donovan, and a few others came up behind the D.I. and gaped at the sight before them.

"Freak? I thought that we were finally rid of you!"

"So sorry to disappoint you, Sally," Sherlock said with a smirk.

Lestrade hurried to follow Sherlock's instructions. As completely shocked as he was, he knew the consulting detective was surely not at all kidding about the body. When his task was done, he turned back to Sherlock. "And...why are you carrying John, might I ask?"

"Well, first off he is injured and can barely walk on his own. And secondly..." Sherlock took one hand and put it on the back of John's neck, tilting his head up to meet his lips. All around them he heard gasps and almost what sounded like someone fainting. Sherlock pulled away after a moment, looking down into John's eyes with a soft smile. "I love him."

John grinned, eyes bright, practically twinkling. "Yeah, that's a big part of it," he said.

Lestrade cleared his throat, his cheeks a light pink. "Well, then. Seems like we've all missed quite a bit. Welcome back, I guess, Sherlock. Besides being alive, killing Moran, and...uhh, kissing John...is there anything else you'd like to tell us?"

Sherlock's smile faded and he looked back at Lestrade seriously. "Jim Moriarty is alive."

Lestrade's features hardened. "Of course he is," he said flatly. His fingers curled into fists. "That utterly psychopathic bastard."

"Yes, unfortunately we were evenly matched once again," Sherlock said with a grim face. "We last saw him on the roof but by now he could be anywhere so it's useless to give chase. We'll have to wait."

"Right," Lestrade said, sighing. "Sherlock, let me know if you hear anything from him. Do you hear me? Don't try to fight him alone this time. We all know how that worked out last time." He leveled Sherlock with an even stare.

Sherlock looked Lestrade in the eye and quirked his mouth to the side. Why did everyone insist on getting themselves involved? He sighed, knowing that there would be no arguing the point. "Alright. Any sign and I'll let you know."

"Good," Lestrade said, nodding. "And you'd best keep to your word on that."

"I'll make sure he does," John said. "Don't worry." He kissed Sherlock's cheek, if only to see Anderson's mouth drop open again.

Sherlock smirked at Anderson's face. "Problem?" Anderson scrunched up his nose and turned away. "Poor Anderson. It's so hard for him to comprehend that his head might explode. Oh, that reminds me, the hospital is also rigged to blow up."

"What?!" Lestrade exclaimed. He bustled out of the room, getting a team on finding the explosives and securing the hospital.

John looked up at Sherlock. "You probably should have mentioned that first, you know. Safety of all the patients, and everything."

Sherlock shrugged. "Slipped my mind in the drama of the moment," he said with a wink.

John laughed loudly. "Okay, well, in case it's slipped your mind, my leg hurts. Can we get back to the club now, so I can rest?"

"Oh. I'm sorry, John. Yes, we'd better go back." Sherlock gave a nod to the rest of the people standing in the lobby before turning on his heel and carrying John out of Scotland Yard. It wasn't long before the two of them were back at the Diogenes Club and Sherlock had laid John down on the same sofa where he was before. "There we go. Do you want me to get you anything?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine," John said. Then he paused, and considered the offer for a moment. "Actually..." he murmured, and grabbed Sherlock's collar, pulling him down for a deep, slow kiss. As he broke away, he grinned. "There. Now I'm fine."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed for a moment after the kiss and hummed contentedly.

"Oh, how lovely. You truly do make a charming couple," Mycroft said, strolling in the room.

Sherlock's face dropped into a frown. "Shouldn't you be doing some crunches?"

Mycroft smiled and his eye twitched a bit. "I was about to send someone to your flat, if you would like anything retrieved."

"My violin, box of patches, and laptop. Anything you need, John?"

"My own cane," John said. "It's more comfortable for me to walk with. Laptop, of course. The pictures off my bedside table. I think that should be it."

Mycroft nodded. "If you like I can show you to the safe house while you wait. There is only one bed but I would assume that won't be a problem." He smiled again and stepped over to the far wall. Flipping his umbrella so the tip was facing upward, he flicked it open with his thumb and revealed a small red button. Upon pushing it, the wall seemed to melt backwards and slid across to reveal a set of stairs.

"This is enough to show you just how much of the government my brother really is," Sherlock said to John. Even he was surprised at the elaborate measures he had taken, but he hid it with a roll of his eyes. Scooping John up, they made their way down the stairs into a small, but well-furnished basement room. A bed was placed in one corner and Sherlock put John down on it. There was a desk with a landline on one wall, a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and it was even carpeted. Once the two were settled in, Mycroft left back up the stairs.

"It's homey," John said mildly, but it was not at all homey. Homey was a flat cluttered with books and unwashed dishes and Sherlock's crazy experiments, and that damn skull. Homey was Mrs. Hudson claiming she wasn't a house keeper, then bringing them dinner and tidying up, anyway. Homey was the chair John always sat in, while Sherlock lounged on the couch with his fingers steepled by his mouth. This wasn't homey; it wasn't _home_. "Do we have to stay here, even though Moriarty has threatened us not to leave the country, and all that?"

"It's only temporary," Sherlock said. He could see by the look on John's face that he was unhappy, and he wished there was another way. "I know it's a bit different, but I promise soon we'll be back where we should be, in 221B." He took one of John's hands and squeezed it.

John sighed, returning Sherlock's grip. "I believe you," he said. "But do you think you could mess this place up a bit with some experiments, make is a little more lived-in?"

Sherlock smirked. "Of course. I'm sure it will bother Mycroft to no end. Let's see what we have to work with..." Sherlock opened the drawers of the desk and found a few fountain pens on which he pulled the levers, spewing ink all over the carpet. He took some papers from another drawer, spreading them across the desk and the floor. "I'll need some of my test tubes and vials to do any experiments. And Yorick." Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft to ask for a few more things from the flat.

John laughed brightly at Sherlock's antics. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed. "Absolutely brilliant. I feel more at home already. Now all that's missing is your violin playing at all hours of the morning."

"Give it time, love. I'll play you to sleep tonight if you like," Sherlock said. He took one of the many pillows from the bed and threw it into a chair across from him. In one swift motion he pulled out his gun and shot the pillow, feathers flying everywhere.

John burst out laughing again, clutching his abdomen and nearly falling sideways. He'd missed this. He'd missed Sherlock. The crazy things the detective did that had once so thoroughly annoyed him were the things he'd longed to have back the most. And now he had them, and he couldn't have been happier.

Sherlock grinned ear to ear when he saw John laughing. A warm feeling welled in his chest at the sight and sound of it. John's laughter was like a forgotten favourite song, and Sherlock loved the light that it brought to his face. He pocketed his gun again and jumped onto the bed, pinning John beneath him, but careful not to hurt his leg. He bent over him and started tickling his sides.

John squirmed and roared with laughter again. He'd never told Sherlock that he was ticklish, but he supposed the detective must have deduced that tidbit of information somewhere along the way. Or, perhaps, it was just a lucky guess. "Stop!" he gasped through his laughter. "Stop; not fair! Surprise attack!"

"You wouldn't have let me attack if it wasn't a surprise," Sherlock said, laughing as well. He did back off, though, to let John breathe a little. Flopping onto his back next to him, Sherlock spread himself out. "As compensation, I will allow you to try your hand at tickling me. But I warn you, it won't be easy."

"I think there's an easier way to fluster you," John said after catching his breath. He rolled over until he was straddling Sherlock's hips, leaning most of his weight on his good leg. Then he swooped down and proceeded to kiss along Sherlock's jaw and neck and collarbone.

Sherlock gasped, his face heating quickly with the feeling of John's trail of kisses. He had never experienced the sensation before and he felt something tingle inside of him in a strange but not unwelcome way. He tilted his head over unconsciously to give John more access.

John smiled against his skin. "See? I knew you'd like it." He bit down gently, sucking lightly at Sherlock's pulse. He figured it wouldn't do much harm. The man always wore a scarf, anyway. "Let me try something else you might like." With that, he reached down to undo Sherlock's belt and unbutton his trousers.

"J-John..." Sherlock breathed. This was certainly new territory to him, but as soon as John's hand was close to what was quickly becoming a very obvious problem, he didn't want him to stop. He even shifted his hips a little to get even closer.

John pulled Sherlock's trousers down to his knees in one swift motion. His pants soon followed. His hand strayed ever closer, until he was gripping Sherlock firmly. He gave an experimental stroke. Idly, he wondered if Sherlock had ever been quite this intimate with another person.

"Ngh!" Sherlock's hips bucked up into John's hand at the touch. God, it felt good! And here if he never cared he would never have experienced this. Mycroft was missing out. He pulled John down to his face to kiss him again.

John kissed Sherlock back deeply, groaning. He moved his hand again, then again, developing a quick but steady pace.

Sherlock couldn't suppress the moan that bubbled inside of him as his hips fell into rhythm with John's hand. One of his hands grabbed John's hair and the other clutched at his shoulder. He felt like he might lose himself if he didn't hang on to him. Sherlock felt a warmth filling him, threatening to explode. "Ah...I'm going to..." he tried to warn but he couldn't finish his sentence before he spilled out, staining the sheets and John's shirt. His breathing slowed and his senses came back to him as he rode out the high. "I-Incredible..."

John smiled down at him. "Is that the first time you've ever done that, Sherlock?" he asked, honestly curious, and not at all judgmental. "The first time you're ever orgasmed?" It was obvious he didn't have a lot of stamina as he'd finished so soon.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes..." And he was still in a state of bliss from it.

John chuckled, kissing his forehead gently. "I'm glad I had the privilege," he said. "The honour."

Sherlock sighed with a smile. He happened to glance down and noticed that John was in a similar state to the one he'd been in not too long ago. "John...Would you like me to..."

John frowned a bit. "You don't have to if you're not comfortable with it, Sherlock," John said. "I can always take care of it myself."

"No. I want to." With a swift but gentle movement, Sherlock had rolled them over so that he was now straddling John's waist. He kissed John again, mimicking him in kissing along his jaw and neck. Meanwhile, his hands had worked off John's belt and undone his trouser button. He pulled down John's trousers, followed by his pants, and then started kissing John's knee. He worked his way from there down his leg, the good one, and into the soft skin of his inner thigh. Sherlock looked up into John's eyes, asking for permission.

John looked back at him, seeing the question in those beautiful, intense eyes. "Yes, Sherlock," he gasped. "Oh, God, yes." His cheeks were dusted with a light pink, and his body had reacted to every one of Sherlock's kisses.

Sherlock smirked, loving that he could elicit this kind of reaction. He centered himself above John and brought his lips down to kiss the tip, tasting the fluids that had already started leaking. Then he opened his mouth and took in about half, testing himself to see how far down he could go. He pulled back and then went down further, and further, until he had nearly taken in the whole thing. Relaxing the back of his throat, Sherlock continued the motions in a steady rhythm, letting his teeth lightly graze the skin and his tongue swirl around it.

John nearly lost control of himself. He gripped the sheets of the bed beneath him, squirming, his hips rolling from the pleasure. Sherlock was shockingly good at this, for a man who'd just had his first orgasm at thirty-something years old. "God, Sherlock..." he groaned through gritted teeth. He brought one hand to the back of Sherlock's head, fingers twisting in his dark curls.

Sherlock grinned around John and continued to suck, his hands coming up to massage his inner thighs in time with his bobbing head. He was quite enjoying this, almost like it was an experiment. Question: How will John react to his different ministrations of pleasure? Hypothesis: John will writhe and groan and gasp his name until he climaxes. Experiment: Well, that was the fun part he was doing right now. He couldn't wait to see the conclusion.

"Sherlock," John moaned breathily, toes curling with pleasure. "God, Sherlock! Yes..." He tilted his head back, letting his eyes fall closed as his lips parted for a soft, shuddering gasp. "Sherlock, I'm going to...ah!" With a cry, he found his release, climaxing. It was sheer bliss; the strongest orgasm he'd ever had.

Sherlock hadn't been completely ready when John finally orgasmed but he swallowed quickly in succession. He licked his lips, the taste of John filling his mouth. Conclusion: This was much better than he had ever thought it could be. Crawling back up to lay next to John, he gave him a sloppy kiss and flopped his head back on a pillow.

John was panting, struggling to catch his breath after such a satisfying release. "Sherlock..." he murmured. "We...absolutely need to do that much, much more often."

"Agreed," Sherlock said. He pulled John close into him, arms around his torso, burying his face in John's hair. He kissed the top of his head.

John sighed softly, relaxing against Sherlock. "I love you," he whispered. "Thank you for everything. Thank you for saving me, and for coming back. Thank you for being alive."

"I love you, too. And thank you for teaching me how."

John blushed lightly and gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. "You're welcome..." he said.

* * *

Aww, their first sexy tiems X] If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	7. Dark Past, Bright Future

Hello again everyone! It's another glorious Monday (who am I kidding, no one likes Mondays XD) so that means another glorious update! Thank you as always to those who stopped by over the past few days, and faved or followed. I'm hoping to get some more people soon, and maybe some more reviews? ^^ I just really want to hear what you think about the story, so if you could, just one word is enough. :] Anyway, enough of my silly begging, enjoy the chapter! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see the first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

Sherlock started running his fingers idly through John's hair. "John, do you think we should put our pants back on? For when Mycroft comes down here with our things?"

"Do we have to?" John asked, groaning. He was feeling much too lazy and peacefully lethargic to bother dressing himself. "Can't we just...cover up with the sheet, or something?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Alright." He pulled at one of the sheets underneath them, which had already been loosened by their activities, and it came free from under the mattress. He pulled it up over the two of them. "There."

"Better," John said quietly. "And Mycroft will never have to know. Well, he'll notice that our pants are on the floor, I suppose, but it really doesn't matter, because we're covered and therefore perfectly decent."

"Quite right. Though he will see that our hair is out of place and that there are some splotches on the sheets. He'll know. But I don't think I even care at this point," Sherlock said with a grin. As if on cue, he heard the sound of the sliding door up the stairs and then footsteps coming towards them. Mycroft and another man entered the little room, arms full of things from their flat.

"Seems you have discovered a new cure for your boredom, dear brother," Mycroft said. Sherlock just glared at him and snuggled closer to John. "And you wasted no time in giving this room your own personal touch I see." The older Holmes scoffed at the mess Sherlock had made.

"It was too stuffy and boring before," Sherlock said, implying his comment about more than just the room.

Mycroft hmph'd as he and the other man laid Sherlock and John's things out on a small table in another corner of the room. "Before I adjourn, do you require anything else? Are you hungry perhaps, John?"

"I am, actually," John said, noticing for the first time the hunger that had settled deep in the pit of his stomach. He'd been too distracted to acknowledge it before. "Tea, maybe?" he requested. "And some toast with jam. That would be great. Thank you, Mycroft."

"Of course. Sherlock?"

"Nothing."

"Very well. Someone will be back with a tray momentarily." Mycroft turned around and he and the other man went back up the stairs. The sliding door closed behind them.

John broke into a miniature fit of laughter. "Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. I just had the absolute worst thought, and I wish Anderson had been here, because it would have embarrassed him to no end. I thought, well, Sherlock's not hungry, because he just ate." He dissolved into chuckles again.

Sherlock paused, furrowing his brow. "Just ate...But I haven't eat-Oh. Ooooooh." He laughed, blushing a little. "You'll have to forgive me. Sometimes I'm a bit slower with innuendos."

John was grinning brightly again, letting his delight and amusement shine through. "That's fine," he said. "It's sweet. Don't worry; I'll teach you everything you need to know."

"I look forward to it," Sherlock said, smiling as well. A moment later someone brought down the tray of tea and toast and left it on the table where there was a little room. Sherlock gave John another kiss on the forehead and got up. He brought the tray to the bed and set it next to John, then he went back to the table and snagged his violin. "Any requests? It's been so long since I've had a chance to play for you."

"No requests," John said, leaning back against the wall and nibbling happily at his toast. "Play anything you want. I haven't heard you play in such a long time. I miss it." He smiled softly. "Something happy, though."

Sherlock nodded and put the violin between his chin and shoulder. He closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling of the instrument in his hands again. He tried to think of something but wound up improvising, as he so often did. His fingers clutched and released the strings, while his other arm worked the bow back and forth in a smooth motion. The melody was happy, as John had requested, and Sherlock tried to let all his thoughts of him flow out through the strings. The violin sang sweetly and he lost himself to the otherworldly feeling of creating music, of playing his heart out loud.

John grinned, enjoying his toast, and enjoying the music. Sherlock's music was always so heartfelt and genuine. He'd always used the strings to express his emotions, even before his death, but John doubted he'd ever noticed then. Now, he was completely in tune with those emotions, or at least starting to discover them, and it made the music even more beautiful. John finished his toast and started to sip at his tea, completely relaxed and at peace. Even the pain from his leg seemed dulled.

Sherlock played for a few minutes more before letting the melody fade off into the distance. He stood in the after-piece silence absorbing the last note as it rang out in his head. Then he opened his eyes and put the violin down. "Did you like it?"

John gave the man a fond smile. "I always love your music, Sherlock. Always. It's how you express your feelings best, I think."

Sherlock went back to the bed and put a hand on John's cheek, kissing him softly. "Then you know that I was playing my feelings for you," he said, resting his forehead against the other's.

John flushed softly. "Yes," he murmured. "I know that." He smiled once more, gazing into Sherlock's eyes. "I wish I had a better way of expressing mine. I can only tell you that I love you."

"That's enough for me." He rubbed his thumb over John's cheek.

John laughed a bit. "This is so strange. I never thought this would happen between us, Sherlock. You're my best friend, yes, but _this_? This is something entirely different."

"Well, you can hardly say that I saw it coming either. Sentiment. Not something I ever saw myself opening up to. But you, John...for some reason you made me care. I have never really had a friend as close as you. Actually, I can't really say that I've had very many friends at all over the course of my life, but I'm sure you could have figured that out yourself. But then, there you were. You didn't see me as some freak. You even tried to help me understand feelings. You stayed by me, saved my life after only knowing each other for a day or so. And you were clever enough to keep up with me. All of that made me quite interested in you. I didn't understand what it was that made you put up with me, but I guess you could say it touched me because you're the only one who has ever done so."

John laughed once more, an embarrassed, happy little smile lighting up his face. "God, Sherlock, I've never heard you say something so entirely sappy before," he said. "Is that really how you feel about me? That's...sweet of you." He kissed the detective's cheek. "To this day, even I don't understand what made me put up with you. But I'm glad I did. All those things that annoyed me at first-the violin playing, the way you analyse me all the time, your ignorance of the solar system, your experiments...those have become the things I love most about you. Just don't ever change."

Sherlock blushed slightly. "I won't so long as you don't want me to," he said, kissing John. He sat up straighter and put a hand to his chin. "That was incredibly sappy, wasn't it? Look what you've done to me. Turned me into a big pile of mush."

"Good," John murmured. "Maybe that was my goal the whole time, Sherlock. To turn you into a sentimental fool like the rest of us. I've succeeded."

"You should be proud of yourself," Sherlock said. "You've seen for yourself that others have tried and failed. Though they were mostly women, so obviously that was never going to work." He stopped for a minute, cleared his throat. "Do you remember when I told you they 'weren't my area'? You then assumed, correctly I might add, that I was interested in men. I never confirmed it but I will now...Just thought I would tell you."

John blushed a touch. "Oh, I see," he said. "So, am I to assume you're still married to your work, and that you just happen to be cheating on it with me?"

Sherlock grinned. "You could say that. Though I think my work and I might get a divorce and just stay friends. That way we can get married." The detective clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as he had said it. "Ahem...I didn't mean that. I mean, not that I wouldn't want to but...I know this is all very new, I don't want to rush it."

For a moment, John was utterly stunned. Intentionally or not, Sherlock had just proposed to him. "You know," he said. "Most people have rings when they do that, and get down on one knee. But you've always been a bit unconventional."

Sherlock's eyes opened a bit wider. "That's...not a no." He laughed nervously.

"Of course not, Sherlock," John said. "Why would I say no to you? How could I _ever _say no to you? It's just not possible."

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock just looked at John, a smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. He couldn't believe this had happened. The possibility of them getting married hadn't even crossed his mind, and yet now he found himself thinking that if John had said no he would have been heartbroken. "Right," he finally broke the silence. "What is your ring size then?"

John grinned brightly. "Eleven," he said immediately. "Nothing too flashy, yeah?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock let his grin finally spread across his face. "We should probably draw up a guest list. Pick a date, hire a florist, a caterer. Lots of planning. There's something to keep me busy for a while." He clapped his hands together, feeling an overwhelming happiness bubble up from his stomach.

"Mycroft will want to be your best man," John pointed out. "And I suppose I'll have to invite Harriet. I'll just make sure she's not allowed to drink anything alcoholic."

"Does Mycroft really have to come?" Sherlock asked with a pout. "I think I would rather Anderson as my best man over him. But it will be interesting to finally meet your sister. Will she be your best, uh, woman?"

"I suppose she should be," John said, sighing. "Honestly, I would rather it be Molly..."

"Well, Molly can still be one of your grooms-maids," Sherlock said. "Would that be the proper term?"

John chuckled. "I don't know. Are there proper terms for this sort of thing?" He smiled and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips. "As long as I don't have to wear a white dress," he said.

An image of John in a dress and a veil popped into Sherlock's head. "Are you sure you don't want to? It looks spectacular on you."

"Sherlock!" John scolded, swatting him lightly on the shoulder. He blushed darkly. "I am _not _wearing a dress!"

Sherlock touched a hand to his shoulder and laughed. "I was only joking. You can wear whatever you like, and you will look quite handsome no matter what it is."

John smiled. "Good," he said. "Because I would not look at all good in a dress, no matter what delusions you may have."

"Well, you never know." Sherlock winked. "But whatever you wish, love."

"Maybe I'll put on a dress for you some time," John compromised. He gave Sherlock a devious smirk. "In private."

"John Hamish Watson!" Sherlock exclaimed, feigning shock. "Who knew you had such a dirty-minded side of you?"

"Should I stop?" John asked, blinking innocently up at Sherlock. He reached out a hand to play with the man's dark curls.

"No. Please continue," Sherlock said, blushing scarlet at the doe-eyed look John had given him.

John chuckled, tracing Sherlock's jaw line with the tips of his calloused fingers. Seeing the detective blush was...rather incredible. It was something very rare and special. "When the muse strikes me," he murmured.

Sherlock turned his head and gently grasped John's wrist, holding his hand in place. He pressed a kiss to each fingertip and then to his palm. "When was the last time I told you I love you?" he whispered against the soft skin.

John found himself blushing once again. He laughed as Sherlock's kisses tickled his fingers. "A few minutes ago, I think?" he said.

"Just thought I should tell you again," he said smiling at the blush he got from John. He was quite adorable like that, cheeks tinted pink and eyes sparkling with laughter. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Not sure I know the answer to that question, but I can think of a few things that helped," John said. "For one, you cured me of my limp. For two, you keep everything interesting."

"Yes, but in the grand scheme of things I've done more harm than good. I've taken advantage of you, almost gotten you killed, and been a general tosser at times," Sherlock said, ticking the items off on John's fingers.

"Mmm, I don't mind those things so much," John hummed. "There's much more good than bad, I think."

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, you are one of very few who believes that. Lucky for me."

"I don't think it really matters what anyone else thinks, do you?" John reasoned. "I love you."

"No it doesn't. Your opinion is the only one that matters to me. I love you, too." Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's lips. He pulled back with a smile and a happy sigh.

John returned Sherlock's grin. "So...the wedding. Whenever we want, or...do you want to take care of Moriarty first?"

Sherlock's smile faded. "I had almost forgotten. Seems we can't just have peace, can we?" He ran a hand through his hair. "I doubt that dear Jim would let us have our ceremony if he found out. But if we were to...run into any difficulties, we might not get the chance."

"So...as soon as possible," John said. "Maybe we can manage to have the ceremony before he knows."

"We can certainly try. How about as soon as your leg is better?" Sherlock suggested.

John frowned. "Sherlock, with rest and rehabilitation, that could take much longer than you think."

"Well, I thought you would want to walk down the aisle," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "I do want that," he murmured. "But no matter how long we wait, I'll still be limping."

"Unless I carry you," Sherlock said, with a little grin. "You pick the date. Whenever you're ready."

"I'll write to Harry," John murmured. "See when she can make it. We'll decide then."

"Alright." Sherlock nodded. "Good."

"Is there anyone else you'll be wanting to invite?" John asked. "I mean, I don't know if you have any other family besides Mycroft."

Sherlock bowed his head. "No, I don't. Our mother died when we were young and my father...Well, we're a bit estranged from him. I don't even know where he is. Nor do I particularly care."

"Oh...Sherlock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked," John said. "It's not any of my business."

"No, it's perfectly fine. I have accepted the way things are." He looked up and smiled at John. "And you don't have to worry about asking me anything. Anything you want to know, I am willing to tell you."

"Really?" John said, caught off guard. He blinked. "Will you tell me about your childhood, then? I've never heard much about it. I feel like I'm missing a whole part of your life."

"Where to begin..." Sherlock laid next to John, pulling him into his chest. "Well, I've lived in London for as long as I can remember. We had a little house, my parents, Mycroft, and I. It was nice. My mother was the one who encouraged our 'talents'. She was a sweet woman, like Mrs. Hudson in a way. I was four when she passed on." He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Mycroft didn't take it well. He sometimes would lock himself in his room for days, just reading. That was how he started to get interested in the British government. We had many books about it lying around the house. I didn't fully understand that she wasn't coming back. I would sometimes wait by the door for her, thinking she'd just gone on a long holiday. Eventually, though, it hit me. That was hard...I do have to say that Mycroft was actually comforting then. He explained to me that Mother was happy and that I shouldn't cry because that would make her upset. So I held in my tears and built up my walls." There was another pause as Sherlock felt himself choking up. "It wasn't long after that when my father started to change. It could have been depression over her death, but he took to drinking, and he wasn't the happy laughing kind of drunk." He sniffed a little, trying to hold in his tears. "I'm sorry. I've never really talked about this before."

John ran one hand over Sherlock's back, slowly, soothingly. The other hand knotted in his hair. "It's fine," he said. "I understand, Sherlock. Take your time. So your father...he was violent toward you and Mycroft?"

"Yes. It was verbal at first. He used to call us freaks, say that we were spawns of something hellish. I think he was a bit jealous because Mother was so intelligent and we turned out the same. One day Mycroft made the mistake of yelling back at him and...that was the first hit. It only escalated. I would sleep with my door locked every night." A few tears managed to escape and he held John tighter. "I started to close myself off, trying to not let the things he said or did bother me. I guess that was when I really started to build my inhuman exterior. When Mycroft turned 18 he left and he took me with him. That was a fun night." Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. "He was already working a government job, though he never really explained how he managed to acquire it. He bought us a little flat and I finished out school, went to university. I bounced through a few odd jobs before I realised my calling and invented the consulting detective job. And eventually I met you. You know the story from there."

John nodded slowly. With tender fingers, he reached up and brushed Sherlock's tears away. "I'm sorry you had such a hard time as a child," he murmured. "We have a few things in common..."

"Really?" Sherlock swallowed to try and clear the thickness in his throat. "Do you want to tell me? You don't have to, of course."

John shrugged a bit. "My father was in the military," he began. "I grew up in a strict militaristic household. There was already some friction between my mother and father, but when Harry came out to them and brought her girlfriend home for holiday, well...things really started to go wrong. My father didn't approve, but my mum was fine with it. So my mum packed up and left without a word. I was twelve, then. My dad kept custody of both of us. Mum didn't want us. Just like yours, my dad took to drink. Harry did, too, not long after. They screamed at each other all the time. It was constant."

"It must have been terrible." Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair soothingly.

John kept his face blank. "I went off to school, eventually," he said. "Had to get a lot of scholarships, rely on my intellect. We were a poor family. But I couldn't pay for medical school, so...I enlisted. You know most of it from there."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, kissing him on the forehead. "But it's nice to know that someone understands."

"I do understand," John said quietly. "I understand quite well."

"I wish you didn't. You don't deserve that at all," Sherlock said. He pulled John in even closer, tilting up his chin to kiss him.

John kissed him back, soft and slow. "Well, the past is the past. Can't change it."

"True. And we can make a better future. A new family." Sherlock smiled down at John, blinking away the last of his tears.

"Would you want to have a family with me, Sherlock?" John asked, looking up at him.

Sherlock paused for a moment. "I hadn't really thought about it. Well, we're getting married anyway. Might as well go all the way, right?" He tried to picture him and John and a child living at their flat in Baker Street. It would be a different experience, but an interesting one. "Do you want to?"

"I wouldn't mind," John said. "It might be a nice change. And...I want the chance to be a better father than mine was. Does that make any sense at all?"

"It makes perfect sense," Sherlock said. "In fact, I feel the same way."

"Then I absolutely want to start a family with you," John said. "But Sherlock...no experimenting on the child." He smiled teasingly.

Sherlock grinned. "What if he was willing to be a test subject?"

John sighed. "Hopefully he takes after me and has more sense than that," he mumbled, dreading what might happen if Sherlock were to be given permission to experiment on a child.

"You know that if I were to experiment on a person it wouldn't be anything too dangerous," Sherlock said with a little pout.

"But a child is different, Sherlock," John muttered. "You keep saying he. Would you prefer a boy?"

"No, I don't have a preference" he said. "Either or is fine."

"I think I might prefer a boy," John said thoughtfully. "I understand boys much better than girls."

"Good point. Women and girls are so...what is the word? Complex?" Sherlock laughed lightly.

"Incredibly so," John agreed. "Complex doesn't even begin to describe it, really."

"You would know more than I. My female interactions are limited to Molly and Mrs. Hudson mostly. And of course the time with Irene Adler, but she was of a different variety entirely." Sherlock shook his head at the memories.

John looked at him curiously. "Sherlock, is she really dead?" he asked. "For some reason, I'm starting to think that with you being alive, and Moriarty being alive, she must be, too."

Sherlock looked surprised. "I was under the impression that you thought she was in America under witness protection. You knew that she died? Well, we faked her death really."

"I assumed," John said. "Correctly, apparently. Or partially so. I could tell something was odd, by the way you were acting. That's how you got it in your head to fake your own death, isn't it?"

"It did give me some inspiration," Sherlock said. He felt the guilt coming back full force. "I am still very sorry about that."

John cupped his cheek softly. "Let's not talk about it," he said.

Sherlock nodded, leaning into John's hand and covering it with his own.

John closed his eyes. Much against his will, he soon started to doze. He was remarkably tired.

When John's eyes closed Sherlock realised just how exhausted he must have been. He smiled fondly, kissing him on the forehead before snuggling them both down further into the sheets. He cradled John in his arms, tucking the doctor's head under his chin. Sherlock knew he probably wouldn't sleep, but he was content to watch John for the night.

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That was a bittersweet chapter. Hopefully it was more sweet than bitter ^^ If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	8. Come Out and Play

Hello my loves! Here's another chapter for you all, and this one gets exciting. Our lovely Jim is back, and as last time, my RP buddy and I both contributed to his craziness XD So, thanks to everyone who has visited over the last few days, faved, followed, or reviewed. I love knowing that there are people out there who are actually enjoying this ^^

ALSO: I should have posted this a few chapters ago, but a long time ago, while we were still in the process of writing all this, I drew a small fanart of the scene in Scotland Yard. It's here on deviantART (just get rid of the spaces in the URL): sailorxstar .deviantart art/ And-secondly-311054359 Just an extra little tidbit for you ^^

ALSO ALSO: I've been working on a coverart for the story, and so far it's actually decent. May or may not post it with the next update ;] Keep your eyes peeled.

Now I think that's it. Enjoy this chapter and I'll see you Monday! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

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John fell into a comfortable routine with Sherlock, living at the club. During the day, he would read, or watch Sherlock experiment. Often, they would even talk about the wedding. Occasionally, Lestrade would come by for help on a case. In the afternoon, the doctor would visit to help John with rehabilitation for his leg. And in the evenings, when they had some privacy, John would teach Sherlock something new about being a couple...

Sherlock spent a few days every now and then incognito, looking for information on Jim Moriarty. He had the homeless network keeping their eyes and ears open, but they had had little luck. Sherlock had managed, however, to take out the remaining two snipers, leaving the consulting criminal hopefully without any more lackeys. At least, not ones that he had known long enough to trust fully. Sherlock felt bad that John didn't get to leave the club, as he was sure he was frustrated with the place, but he was working as best as he could to make it safe for them to live normally again.

John sighed, sitting on the bed and fiddling with the new engagement ring on his finger. He stared up at the ceiling thoughtfully. He'd sent a letter to Harriet about the wedding, and she'd finally replied. She wouldn't be attending. He supposed he should have expected as much. He balled the letter up and threw it at the wall.

Sherlock came down the stairs with an armful of papers. He looked at the crumpled ball near his feet then at John who still had the letter's envelope in his lap. "She's not coming."

"No," John replied simply. "She's not coming. Sends her well wishes, though." He scoffed bitterly.

Sherlock frowned and sat next to John, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's her loss. She's going to miss out on all the fun."

John chuckled and managed a smile. "Right," he said. "All the fun. What are all those papers for?"

"Ah, yes." Sherlock spread them out on the bed in front of John. "They're papers to start the adoption process. It takes quite a while so I thought we would get a jump on it. Hopefully my work will soon be done and we won't have to worry about our lovely friend Jim threatening our son."

"If he even tried, I would cut his balls off," John said without a moment's hesitation. And he was utterly serious. He eyed the paperwork. There was quite a lot of it, and it looked rather daunting.

"Yes, it's very extensive. But I thought since we don't have much else going on it would keep us busy for a while," Sherlock said.

"You mean since _I _don't have much else going on," John said, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "You have plenty going on. I don't."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm working on this as quickly as I can. A few in the homeless network think they might have finally found a location. I was going to check it tonight." He took John's hand. "I really do wish you could come. I thoroughly miss our adventures together. But I know your leg isn't completely ready for action yet..."

"My leg is fine," John argued. "I just need my cane. I'm limping, is all. I can help, Sherlock. Let me come work with you again."

"John...I don't know. Are you really sure that you're up for it?" Sherlock was more than a little worried. He would never forgive himself if he let John come when he wasn't ready and then he got hurt again. Or worse.

"Positive, Sherlock," John growled. "For goodness' sake, stop _babying _me!"

"I'm not trying to!" Sherlock retorted. "You know why I worry about you."

"I know, but I'm telling you that I'm fine," John hissed. "Stop questioning it and let me make my own decision. I'm a grown man, Sherlock."

Sherlock hung his head and let out a small groan. He hadn't wanted to argue with John, but the doctor was particularly restless lately and prone to setting off at the littlest things. "Alright fine. I'm sorry."

John sighed. Damn. He'd upset Sherlock again. "No," he said. "I'm sorry. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm climbing the walls. I need to get out of here."

"I know. It's cabin fever talking," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath. "Come with me tonight. We can finish him off for good if the information is right and we can finally be out of here."

John immediately perked up. "Thank God," he said. "Yes, I'll come with you." Both because he wanted to escape this place, and because he wanted to see Moriarty's downfall.

Sherlock smiled. "Excellent. It'll be nice to have my blogger along again."

John grinned. "I suppose me writing a blog post will be something like your official return. The world will know, then, won't they? Or, at least, everyone who used to read my blog."

"Yes," Sherlock said with a nod. "Of course, that will probably mean an onslaught of media trying to discover how I lived and then of course a slew of new cases. But I think we can manage."

"Of course we can manage," John said. "We always manage. We've managed Moriarty for this long, haven't we? We can handle the media. And cases will keep me busy, which I need right now."

"Agreed. I need a good case like I need a new box of patches. I've been going through far too many." Sherlock pulled up his sleeve to reveal there were three on his arm at that moment. "It's becoming expensive. Normally I don't care that I get money for solving cases but it would help at the moment."

John sighed heavily. "You and your patches..." he murmured. "Maybe someday you'll find a healthier food for thought, yeah?"

"Perhaps, but old habits die hard, John," Sherlock said. "Maybe once we're out of here I'll cut back a bit."

"I would appreciate that," John said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Can we get out of here now? I'm ready to go." He stood, gripping his cane.

"Yes, let's go." He took John's hand and the two of them made their way out of the basement room and up into the main club. Sherlock led him to the back door where they slipped out into the dark. They went through alleys and down side streets where there was little to no activity, taking the stealthiest route to the location the homeless network had discovered: an abandoned warehouse on the shore of the Thames. He sincerely hoped that this would be the end and that they would come out on top. Together.

John limped along beside Sherlock. The cane felt familiar in his hand, like all those years ago when he'd visited his first crime scene with the once enigmatic consulting detective. He wasn't so mysterious anymore. Now, John could read him like a book. And he knew Sherlock was worried. Not for himself, of course, but for John. "Sherlock," he said quietly. "I'm going to be fine. We're going to end this together. I promise."

Sherlock looked to John and nodded with a small smile, trying to let himself be reassured. Then he put a finger to his lips and gestured for him to look at one side of the building while he checked the other. He crept around the side, searching for signs that anyone had been there. But try as he might there was nothing around. He wasn't surprised. Jim was good at cleaning up after himself. "Anything?" he hissed to John.

"Nothing," John replied softly, gritting his teeth. He gripped his gun steadily in his free hand, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. He couldn't deny that he was on edge. Moriarty was tricky. "So should we go inside, then?"

"Suppose so." Sherlock walked around to the front of the building. "Though it seems too easy...We can't underestimate him." He stepped toward the door, looking for any trigger for an alarm or trap but found nothing. If Moriarty was really here, would he leave himself so vulnerable? He went up to the door itself step by step and pushed it just a hair. Nothing. Maybe it was another dead end, or maybe he knew they were coming and fled. Yet something told him that neither was the case. What was he playing at then?

John nudged the door open a little further with his foot, his military training kicking in. No visible traps. No guards. It was safe to proceed, so he slipped inside, with the help of his cane, keeping his gun ready.

"Oh, Sherlock, you brought your pet doctor along!" Moriarty's voice sang. "How sweet. Really, I thought you knew better by now, but it seems you don't."

John raised his gun and swept the room for Moriarty, but he couldn't find the source of the voice.

"Oh, and look at that lovely ring on his finger. Very romantic, the two of you, I must say. I'm disappointed you didn't buy _me _any jewelry. You do know how fond I am of diamonds."

Sherlock whipped his own gun out and spun slowly looking for Moriarty. His voice echoed around the empty building, making it impossible to tell where he was. "So sorry, Jim. There was only so much in my budget." He looked up at the rafters above. They were large enough for him to hide on top of if he was lying down. He pointed his gun upward, though he still didn't know his exact location.

"Very good. You're getting warmer," Moriarty's voice purred.

John grimaced, already frustrated with this game. "Damn it, Moriarty, stop playing around," he hissed.

There was laughter. "Oh, Johnny, you know playing is my favourite thing to do! How's the leg? I do love the cane. Nice touch. Sophisticated. Very...dashing."

Sherlock ignored the guilt that flashed inside him at the mention of John's cane. Instead he smirked. "You have more fun with this than I do." He was trying to keep him talking as he moved further in, seeing if he could possibly find him.

"Of course. What else is there to do? Life is so utterly boring. You won't find me by the way. I'm just like lightning. Never in the same place twice."

John scowled. "What do you want, Moriarty? Why did you bother bringing us here? Just to annoy us?"

"Oh, well, nooo," Moriarty purred. "I have a motive, of course. You're so impatient, Johnny boy! I'm just tired of you two hiding from me. Or, rather, tired of Sherlock hiding. I want you out in the open, Sherly, back at Baker Street, preferably. So I brought you here. In a few minutes, you won't have a place to hide anymore. Pity you brought John along, though. The explosion surely would have buried him in that little safehouse, and seeing your reaction as they dragged his body out of the ruin would have been such fun!"

Sherlock looked to John, eyes wide. To think that his trying to keep John safe would have gotten him killed anyway. He kept his voice impassive. "Always with the explosives. And I suppose you have two detonators, just in case?"

There was low chuckle. "You know me so well."

Suddenly Sherlock remembered his chemicals still in the basement. If they were to catch fire, the explosion would be much worse. "If we were to return to Baker Street willingly, would that stop you from blowing up the club?"

Moriarty sighed. "How boring," he said. "Always on the side of the angels, aren't you, Sherlock? No, that would not stop me. See, I'm blowing up the club either way. Should be a good show, I think. I do hope big brother makes it out all right. Such a sweet guy."

John stared back at Sherlock, horrified.

Sherlock tried to hide his fear. Much as he hated him, Mycroft was still his brother. He hadn't seen him that day so he didn't know if he was in the club or off being the government somewhere, but he sincerely hoped it was the latter. He gave a shrug. "Mycroft can take care of himself. He's always prepared for things like this."

"We'll soon see how well," Moriarty said, and Sherlock could hear the smirk in his voice.

John pin-pointed the voice, and spun, firing instantly.

"Ohhh, very good!" Moriarty exclaimed. "Close, but you missed me~! I do admire your skill with a gun. Reminds me of Sebby sometimes. Well, good luck to big brother Mycroft. I suggest you call the police and the fire brigade right about...now."

Sherlock whipped around to face where John had shot. There was a clicking sound but nothing followed. They were too far to hear the explosion, but Sherlock already had his phone out dialing Lestrade. "Greg, the Diogenes Club, NOW! Bring firetrucks." And he hung up.

"Well, my work here is done. It's been smashing, boys! We must do this again sometime...soon." Footsteps scuffed across the rafters and faded away.

* * *

Sorry for being like Moftiss and leaving you with a cliffhanger, but I'm evil like that ;] If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	9. The First and Second Strikes

Hi guys! Happy Memorial Day! Just want to say that to anyone who has veterans in the family, or who is a veteran reading this, thank you for your service and God bless!

And now, here's a present. An extra long chapter :D I have to say, I remember when I RPed one part of this and I had no idea this was coming at all. So when I read the email I was like "GJDHSGJKSGHKJ WHAT?" XD I'm sure you will be too, and I'm sorry but I also hope that you still like it ^^

Aaaaaaand, now, the moment that you probably haven't been waiting for XD Here is the link to the cover page for the story (just remove the spaces and change CON)! sailorxstar. deviantart. CON /art/ I-O-U-Much-More-Cover-374304170 Well, it's a rough sketch of the cover page. I may or may not colour it. I haven't decided yet. I hope that it's not that bad T_T

So, besides that, thank you to everyone who faved and followed since Friday. You guys are wonderful, and every chapter I get more people coming. I'm really happy that you guys are liking the story ^^ Please keep the love coming because I'll keep giving it right back. Enjoy the chapter! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

"God, Sherlock, Mycroft!" John said, panicked. He grabbed the detective's hand and hurried as fast as his cane would allow out of the building. He was suddenly very grateful Sherlock had allowed him to come along. If he hadn't, John would most likely be burning alive at this very moment. It was an awful thought, one that nearly made the doctor sick to his stomach.

Sherlock gripped John's hand tightly. They dashed up the streets back to the club. A few blocks away they could already see the fire and hear the sirens. Sherlock let go of John, speeding up until he was in front of the building. The flames licked at the dark sky, there were people gathering in the street, an ambulance was already half full of injured escapees. Sherlock shoved through the crowd, bypassing the policemen at the yellow tape, and grabbing Lestrade by the shoulders. He shook him, yelling, "Mycroft! Have you seen Mycroft!?"

Lestrade was stunned by Sherlock's sudden appearance, but he quickly collected himself. "We haven't found him yet, Sherlock," he said. "But I'm sure he's fine. They're still evacuating people; I'm sure he's one of them."

John caught up to Sherlock a few moments later, pausing to catch his breath. He stared at the flames. It amazed him, in a terrible way, how much destruction one man could leave in his wake.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand again, needing some form of support. He watched as a few more people were brought out by the firemen. "John, where is he?" He grabbed John's arm with both of his hands, squeezing far too tightly. "John..." He was half tempted to go in himself.

"Sherlock...maybe he wasn't here," John said, wincing and trying to pry Sherlock's fingers off of his arm. They were sure to bruise, with how tight Sherlock's grip was. "Maybe he was out. Either way, I'm sure he's fine. Mycroft isn't one to let himself be killed by Moriarty, of all people."

Sherlock released his grip when John started to peel his fingers back. "Sorry. Perhaps you're right. I should just call him." He pulled out his mobile and dialed Mycroft. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. Sherlock swallowed and looked at John as he left a message. "Call when it's convenient."

John frowned. Sherlock preferred to text, so the fact that he'd called Mycroft was a significant indication of just how concerned he was. "I'm sure he's fine," he assured once more, putting a supportive hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Try not to worry too much..."

Sherlock nodded. He knew John was right, but worry still clenched in his stomach.

"We've got him," Lestrade said, running over. He pointed to a group of firemen who were extracting Mycroft from the building. John gripped Sherlock's hand tightly.

Sherlock's shoulders dropped in relief and he smiled a little. Then he made his face blank and walked over. The firemen brought Mycroft to the ambulance and sat him down so the paramedics could look him over. He looked a bit singed but nothing permanently damaging. Sherlock stood to one side.

"Next time please inform me when your friend Mr. Moriarty plans on blowing up a building. We're going to have to deal with clean up now."

"I would have if I knew ahead of time." He tried to glare but a hint of a smile played on his lips, the unspoken happiness that he was okay.

"You really need to take care of this. He's a nusiance." Mycroft's eyes glinted a little and he looked at the burning building. "My umbrella didn't make it out."

"We'll get you another one," John assured him as he approached. He smiled a bit, amused. "Glad to see you're all right, Mycroft. Sherlock was worried."

"Shut up," Sherlock said, looking away.

"Thank you, John. And I'm glad to see you as well. I hadn't thought that Sherlock would allow you out for some time. It was a stroke of luck."

The reality of the situation hit Sherlock in the face. Before he had been too concerned with Moriarty to give it much thought, but now he realised just how close he had come to losing the most important person in his life. "John...I'm so sorry." He turned to him and pulled him in close. "How could I have been so stupid to even _think_ of leaving you behind."

John was stunned by the sudden embrace, but hugged Sherlock back tightly. "Sherlock, you were trying to protect me," he reasoned. "You couldn't have known. Let's just be grateful I went with you, okay?"

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder. "I'm not letting you out of my sight anymore." He pressed a kiss to John's hair before letting him go, but kept one of his hands.

Mycroft stood up. "I suppose this means that you will be returning to Baker Street. In that case, I can help with some security."

John sighed. "Sherlock, you can't watch me every moment of the day. It's just not realistic. Really."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock said, quirking his mouth. "But I can make sure that I never leave the flat without you. So long as we're in the same building I'll be happy."

"Right," John said. "And what if I want to go to the pub with Greg. What then? You're not usually one to go out drinking with us."

Sherlock frowned. John was getting mad, he could see. He didn't want to fight with him, not after what they'd just been through. "Well...I can trust him to look after you." Compromise. That usually worked. "But how often do you really need to go to the pub?"

John sighed, at that. "I suspect with everything that's been going on, I'll be wanting to go to the pub a bit more frequently than usual..." he mumbled. He would never get drunk. No, John wasn't the type. Not with Harriet being the way she was. But a drink or two with Lestrade always calmed his nerves.

Sherlock hmph'd. "Fine. So long as you're with him. Otherwise you stay with me."

"So I need babysitters again, then," John huffed. "Lovely. Just lovely. You know, I'm capable of defending myself." Even Lestrade looked skeptical, at that. John was constantly getting in trouble.

"John, I told you this was going to happen. Because I came back sooner than I had meant to, and especially since Moriarty is still alive, you are a target again. You've been in mortal danger multiple times since my reappearance and I'm not going to make the mistake of letting that happen again. It's for your own good!" Sherlock sighed, looking into his eyes. "I know you can defend yourself under normal circumstances but this is Moriarty we're dealing with. It's better to be safe than sorry, yes?"

"I suppose," John muttered. "It's tiring, really. Why am I the target? You'd think Moriarty would have thought of a few other ways to get under your skin, by now. But, no, instead, I have to endure all of this absolute nonsense. I swear, if I'm threatened at gunpoint by that man one more time, I'm going to kill him. There's nowhere he'll be able to hide."

"You're the target because I love you and he swore to burn out my heart. I don't think there's anything else that he could do that would compare, and he won't settle for less than the worst possible torture." Sherlock squeezed John's hand. "I'm sorry that I dragged you into this psychotic game."

John frowned and ran his calloused thumb gently over the back of Sherlock's hand. "Don't apologise," he said. "You know I don't care about that. I wouldn't want to be living any other life than this one."

"I know." Sherlock smiled a bit sadly. "Though I think if you had known ahead of time that you would be the target of a psychopathic killer because of me that you might have chosen something a bit less dangerous."

John shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "But look at all the fun I would have missed." He returned Sherlock's smile encouragingly. "Come on. 221B is waiting for us."

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead. "Yes. Let's go home." He hooked his arm into John's.

"We'll be watching," Mycroft said with a nod, which Sherlock returned. Then the two of them set off away from the wreckage of the club to the open street to hail a cab.

"It was different of him," John said. "To not give you more warning, or a way to get out of it or prevent it. To not make it more...playful. His games are getting more abrupt. Deadlier." He climbed into the back of a cab.

"I suppose even that gets boring to him eventually. He's changing it up," Sherlock said. "Baker Street, please," he added to the cabbie who nodded and drove off.

"I guess it's just a matter of trying to predict his next move," John reasoned, watching the streets of London flash by through the window. "But that seems nearly impossible."

"It really is." Sherlock looked at John's profile, glowing from the lights zooming by. To think he might not be sitting in a cab with him had things gone differently...He shook his head, banishing the thought.

John wasn't quite sure what happened next. All he knew was that one moment he was turning to Sherlock, with the intention of kissing his cheek, and the next, there was the most hideous crunching sound he'd ever heard. The impact was jarring, and horns were blaring, and John was vaguely aware of screaming that may have been his own. The cab fish tailed off the road, before flipping and rolling, and all John could do was grab Sherlock's coat and _hold on_.

Sherlock's arms flew out trying to find anything to hold on to. He could hear John screaming and he grabbed him, pulling him into his chest as he slammed against the side of the cab. He heard a loud thumping sound, his head hitting the glass of the window as it hit the ground and broke. Suddenly he was extremely dizzy and nauseous, but mostly he was losing his ability to think straight. When had they gotten on a carnival ride? John sure was screaming a lot for a ride. As he was about to say something, there was another spin and he lost consciousness.

John groaned as the cab finally jerked to a stop, wrapped around a lamp post. He sat up, struggling to get his bearings. Dizzy. He was very dizzy. He smelled blood. "Sherlock?" he croaked. "Are you all right?" As his vision focused, he saw Sherlock, slumped against the shattered window and unconscious, with blood running from a gash by his hairline.

His heart stuttered in his chest. "Oh, God, Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock!" He didn't touch him. He was a doctor, and knew better. But he could see the shallow rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, and knew he was alive. That, at least, was a blessing.

Mycroft was just about to leave for his house when his phone began to ring. "Hello?" As he listened to Anthea who had been watching the surveillance cameras, his eyes widened in horror. "Yes. They will be there right away." He hung up and turned to Lestrade. "Send your men to the corner of Morton and and Ohio. There's just been an accident...It was their cab."

Lestrade swore, instantly turning on his heel, shouting for his men to "Hurry the hell up, there's been an accident!" He couldn't believe this. Moriarty had gone too far. Because, of course, it had to be Moriarty. This couldn't possibly be coincidence.

Thankfully, it wasn't long before John heard sirens. Paramedics gathered Sherlock up, stabilising his neck and spine, and lifting him onto a stretcher. John refused to be bothered with until Sherlock was taken care of.

Mycroft had come with Lestrade and the rest of the police. When they reached the scene, he rubbed a hand over his face before rushing over to where he saw the paramedics and John. Sherlock was on a stretcher, bloodied up in the same way as he had been three years earlier. Mycroft turned to John as they loaded him into the ambulance. "This isn't going to get any better."

John was stunned, frozen, reminded horribly of the last time he saw Sherlock so pale, covered in so much blood, so still and unresponsive. He felt nauseous, and faint. "What do you suggest I do...?" he murmured.

Mycroft sighed. "Even I don't hold all the answers. There's only one possible solution, and it's not going to come to pass very easily. James Moriarty needs to be killed."

John took a deep breath and released it slowly, shakily. "You're right," he said. "That's the only way to end this. But saying it isn't going to be easy is a complete understatement. It's going to be nearly impossible."

"I know," Mycroft said. "But if anyone can do it, it would be the two of you."

"It will be done," John said firmly. "For Sherlock's sake. I won't let him be hurt anymore." He shuddered, his wooziness increasing. A paramedic draped a blanket over his shoulders, and John couldn't help but laugh. "It's for shock..." he muttered to himself.

Mycroft grinned but felt no mirth behind it. "I have the utmost faith in you."

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said. "I'm really glad you're all right." With that, his body finally gave up on him, and John fell in a near-dead faint. A small group of paramedics swarmed him.

**I.:.O.:.U**

When Sherlock woke up there was a dull throbbing in his head and he groaned. Just that little bit of effort was enough to escalate his headache to splitting. Did he dare to open his eyes and let the light in? Just by inhaling he could smell antiseptic and the general sterile atmosphere of hospital.

Hospital...Suddenly the night before (or was it? How long had he been out?) came rushing back to him, making his head spin. The crash, the blow to his head. "John!" he cried, though it sounded strangled and very unlike his voice. His eyes shot open and he sat up, only to feel dizziness and nausea sweep over him. He fell back into the pillows.

"Don't try to move too much," John advised him gently. He was in the same room as Sherlock-the doing of Mycroft's influence, he was sure-tucked reluctantly into a hospital bed. He was propped up against numerous pillows and watching Sherlock with obvious concern. "You hit your head pretty hard."

Sherlock groaned again squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his head. "John..." It was a whimper this time, but he didn't care. He was just glad to hear John's voice, even if it grated on his brain and threatened to knock him out again.

"I know, Sherlock," John responded softly. "I know it hurts. The doctor doesn't want to give you any morphine or anything too strong, because of your history with drugs. Just try to go back to sleep."

Sherlock cursed himself for his stupidity in the past. He tried to relax and fall asleep again but the pain was too much. He reached out a hand in the general direction of John's voice.

With a frown, John maneuvered out of his bed as quietly as possible and took a seat in the chair beside Sherlock's. He grasped the detective's hand. "I'm here," he whispered. "Just try to relax."

Having John's hand in his helped a little, but the pain didn't go away. Sherlock laid quietly trying to separate himself from the throbbing, steadying his breathing, and eventually fell into fitful sleep.

John took a trembling breath, frantically wiping away the tears that he was very glad Sherlock hadn't seen. He didn't need to worry him any more. He couldn't bear seeing Sherlock like this. Such a great man, brought to whimpers and the desperate need to hold someone's hand...

The next time Sherlock woke his head felt much better but still hurt immensely. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. Turning his head he found John asleep in a chair next to his bed, still holding his hand. Wincing with the effort, he leaned over as much as he needed to kiss the back of John's hand before laying back again.

John stirred at the contact, and as his eyelids fluttered open, he was glad to be rid of the nightmare that had been behind them only moments before. "Sherlock!" he gasped. "You're awake. How are you feeling?" His grip on his fiance's hand tightened.

"Awful," Sherlock wheezed. "But better than before. What was the damage?" He was tempted to probe his head a bit to find out but knew it would probably only make things worse.

"You cracked your head open, Sherlock," John murmured. "You have a severe concussion, and you need to stay here to be monitored. Otherwise, you've obviously got some bruises, but those are nothing serious."

Sherlock groaned. "Annoying. Was the cabbie in on it?" Even with his pounding head, he could still make the logical connection that Moriarty had to be behind this.

"Cabbie's dead," John told him. "Lestrade is still investigating. I'm sure you'd already have an answer, if you were the one at the crime scene, but you need to rest right now." He smiled. "I'm sure Anderson's trying his best."

Sherlock laughed but regretted it when it sent a sharp pain through his head. "Anderson may as well be making assumptions with his eyes closed. But you and I both know who's behind this. They won't find anything out of the ordinary."

John gave his hand a comforting squeeze and nodded. "Yes," he said. "I know that." He sighed. "Mycroft says there's no other choice. We have to be rid of him. We have to kill him. Somehow."

"If only it were that easy. He always seems to be one step ahead." Sherlock frowned. He wanted to think but his head hurt far too much.

John pressed his lips together, displeased. "All right, enough worrying for you. You still need rest."

Sherlock smirked. "Whatever you say, Doctor."

"I'm serious, Sherlock," John said. "Concussions are tricky, and nothing to smirk about. Behave yourself."

"Don't worry. I have no intentions of taking any chances. I'm in too much pain." Sherlock closed his eyes. "Kiss me, John?"

John chuckled softly. He stood and leaned over Sherlock, pressing a gentle, loving kiss to his lips. "As soon as you get out of here, we're getting married. I'm not waiting any longer. Not taking any more chances."

Sherlock kissed back, smiling. "Agreed. I'll have Mycroft start making preparations. Though we might have to put off the honeymoon for a bit."

"I'm fine with that," John said. "As long as I'm married to you. We don't even need a honeymoon, as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't know. After all this, wouldn't it be nice to have a holiday? All these near death experiences have taken a toll on me." Sherlock chuckled.

"This is only your first near death experience," John reminded quietly. "I've had...four now? Five? I'm the one who needs a holiday."

"Your near death experiences affect me just as much as my own." Sherlock looked into John's eyes. "Because you are my life now."

"Sherlock, that is entirely too sappy," John scolded. He reached up, one hand softly caressing Sherlock's cheek, tucking back a wayward curl. "I'm sorry. I hate causing you so much stress."

"It's not sappy, it's just the truth," Sherlock huffed. "And it's not your fault. I would rather near death than death, even if it is stressful." He leaned into John's touch, feeling a bit better.

"Me, too," John agreed. "All right. Enough chat. I've kept you up too long. More rest now."

"Alright, alright." Sherlock relaxed, closing his eyes. "I love you, John."

"I love you, too, Sherlock," John said softly. "Very much." He sat back in his chair, still holding Sherlock's hand tightly. He couldn't even think of loosening his grip. If he did, Sherlock might disappear.

* * *

Told you that you'd be surprised XD If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D

And just in case I haven't said it before, my RP buddy plays Lestrade. :]


	10. A Minor Break

Happy Friday all! Just want to say thank you for all the faves and follows over the week. I think that this is the most I got since I started posting this, and that really makes me happy :D You guys are truly awesome!

Side news, I've been asked to beta read a few stories, which is totally awesome because I've always wanted to be a beta :D When those stories come out, I'll let you know and you can take a look and support those authors ^^

Anyway, that's all for now. Enjoy the chapter and I'll see you on Monday! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

Sherlock and John settled back into life at 221B Baker Street as soon as Sherlock was released from the hospital. Sherlock was a bit frustrated because his chemistry set, his violin, and his skull had been lost to the flames, but all of those paled in comparison to having John. He wasn't bored enough to miss them too much anyway, what with planning for the wedding.

John sat in his usual chair-the best chair in the world, in his opinion. He'd missed it quite a bit. Just like the hideous wallpaper was the best in the world, and the bullet holes that Sherlock had put in the wall were the best in the world. 221B Baker Street was the best flat in the world. So John sat, tapping his cane against the floor, looking over flower choices for the wedding. "Is this really necessary?" he asked Sherlock. "I mean, flowers? I know Molly and Mrs. Hudson think we should have a proper ceremony, but this all seems...frivolous."

"Aren't most things in a wedding frivolous? Really you don't need a ceremony at all, just someone to make it official and a witness. But if we're going to do it then we should go all the way," Sherlock said with a grin. "Now which ones do you like better?"

"Oh, I haven't the foggiest," John complained. He shifted, tucking his good leg underneath him and rubbing slowly at the other, working the soreness out of the muscles around his wound. "Flowers aren't really my area."

Sherlock chuckled. "Fine, I'll pick." He put a hand to his chin and looked between the choices. "The carnations, I think. Not too fragrant and they still look nice."

John grinned at him. "Never would have thought of you as having extensive floral knowledge, Sherlock," he said. "Well, the carnations are fine with me. We could have wilting roses, for all I care, as long as we get married."

"I don't really have much knowledge. Carnations were an essential detail in a case once, before we met." Sherlock leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "You know, there are still moments when I think that this is all just some very elaborate product of my imagination."

John watched him for a moment, then stood and limped over. He flopped rather gracelessly across Sherlock's legs, sitting in his lap. "Well, it's not," he said. "Unless you hit your head a bit harder than we thought." He reached up to ghost his fingers along the scar by Sherlock's temple, just barely hidden by his curls.

Sherlock's arms circled John's waist automatically. "I sincerely hope not." His scar tingled where John's fingers had trailed and he closed his eyes. It was still a bit sensitive, even to the light touch. "But if that's the case, I hope the illusion never ends."

"It won't," John said, tilting his head back to brush his lips along Sherlock's jaw. "I'm here. I'm real. Honestly, Sherlock, shouldn't I be the one thinking _you're_ the illusion?"

"Probably," Sherlock admitted. "I did 'come back from the dead'."

"Exactly," John said. "And sometimes it really is hard to convince myself you're not a ghost. I guess you gave me my miracle, though." He played with Sherlock's curls. "Were you there, that day I went to your grave with Mrs. Hudson? Did you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded feeling his guilt bubble up again. "I did. It was all I could do then not to tell you that I was there. You were so...broken. I hated to see you that way." He pulled John in closer.

"I didn't know what to do," John murmured, remembering those first few weeks with horrible clarity. "I was lost. I was so unsure. I was desperate."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm still sorry. I will always be sorry."

"No," John said. "No, you've done enough apologising." He kissed Sherlock softly. "Enough for a lifetime."

Sherlock kissed back, pulling away slowly. "You may think so. I, however, will always have to remember the way you looked that day and know that it was my fault." He sighed. "Perhaps if we can finally finish off Moriarty I'll feel better. At least then I can finally say that my disappearance wasn't for nothing."

"Of course we can finish him off," John said. "If anyone in the world is clever enough to outsmart Jim Moriarty, it's you, Sherlock. And I'll be there to make sure you don't do something stupid and get yourself killed."

"Always good to know you have my back." Sherlock kissed the tip of John's nose.

John's face broke into a grin. "Of course I do," he said. Idly, he played with the collar of Sherlock's well-tailored shirt. "Sherlock...I..." For some reason, though they'd been together for weeks now, this subject was difficult to bring up. "We haven't done much...intimately, since that one instance. Are you...are you comfortable going further, or was that something you wanted to save for after we're married? I know some people are old-fashioned like that."

Sherlock's face turned bright red as he remembered that first night. "Oh...Yes, we've been a bit distracted lately, haven't we..." He swallowed. "Well, if you wanted to...I wouldn't be opposed. Did you want to wait?"

"Ah, no," John said. "Not really the waiting type, despite my strong moral principles. I'm still a man, and, well...it's been a while."

Sherlock nodded. "In that case..." He tightened his arms around John, and he pressed their lips together.

John shifted, pressing himself closer to Sherlock's chest and returning the kiss with anticipation and passion. His fingers threaded in Sherlock's curls-those curls. He loved those curls. His tongue darted out to prod at Sherlock's lips, seeking entrance.

Sherlock opened his mouth, suddenly eager. He ran his tongue over John's, tasting his morning coffee and minty toothpaste. His hands clutched at John's hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

John gave a soft, surprised gasp at Sherlock's forcefulness. But it excited him. His hands moved to Sherlock's shirt, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons. Soon he was sliding the troublesome garment off of Sherlock's torso and tossing it aside.

John's hands moved fast and Sherlock hummed into their kiss. His own hands wandered up under John's jumper. He did love it when John wore those jumpers (he was so cute and cuddly), but right now it was in the way. He pulled it upward and over John's head, throwing it with his shirt.

"You're...certainly eager," John breathed against Sherlock's lips. "Shall we...move to the bedroom?"

"Well, I'm a man too, you know..." Kissing him again, Sherlock scooped John up and carried him to his bedroom. He laid them both down on the bed without breaking the kiss.

John released a soft, pleased moan. It only took him a few moments to work off his trousers, followed by his pants, leaving him once again bare in Sherlock's presence. Though, around Sherlock, who could deduce everything at a glance, he'd always felt somewhat bare. This was just in a more intimate sense.

Sherlock smirked as he undid his own trousers while kissing down John's jaw. He found the soft spot beneath John's ear that he knew was an extra sensitive spot and left hot, open-mouthed kisses there.

John moaned once more, loudly and desperately, squirming beneath Sherlock. Clearly the man had properly cataloged the information he'd gathered the last time they'd been intimate. "Nnnh, wait, before we...get too far. Top drawer." He gestured wildly to the bedside table. "Condoms. Lube."

Sherlock sat up, opening the drawer and pulling out a box and a bottle. "Um..." These were things he had never used before, not even seen before. He blushed in embarrassment. "John?"

John chuckled a bit, amused by Sherlock's innocence. "Don't worry," he said. "You know the technical aspects, yes? What's supposed to happen? I can guide you through the actual act. First thing's first." He reached down and gripped Sherlock, giving a few experimental strokes.

Sherlock moaned, his head falling backwards. He felt himself getting even harder.

John continued to work Sherlock's arousal until he was satisfied. Then he grabbed the box of condoms and retrieved one of the square packets. "Watch," he instructed. He ripped the packet open and extracted the little circle, which he rolled slowly onto Sherlock's erection.

Sherlock watched closely to make sure he remembered for the future. It was a weird sensation, having the rubber stretched over him.

"Good," John said, nodding in an almost clinical manner, though his arousal was begging for release. He took the bottle of lube and emptied some onto Sherlock's fingers. "You know, generally, what you're supposed to do with these, right?" he said. He gripped Sherlock's wrist and brought the detective's hand down, between his legs, and back.

Sherlock nodded. He was pretty sure he could take it from there. He found John's entrance with his finger and slowly slid one in. He moved it in and out a few times. "Good?" he asked.

John took deep, slow breaths, his fingers digging into Sherlock's thin shoulders as he forced his body to relax at the intrusion. It was an odd sensation, but a pleasurable one. "Yes," he breathed. "Feels good."

"Alright. Here's another one," Sherlock said, adding a second finger. He opened his fingers a little to help stretch John out. "Good?" he asked again. He wanted to make sure that he wasn't doing anything that hurt him.

"Yes," John replied again. He knew the burn would fade. It was already very faint, and not so much painful as uncomfortable, so he just had to push through it. His body was still very happy with the attention. "Oh, God, Sherlock, yes."

Just John's words were enough to elicit a low undefinable sound from Sherlock's chest. He pulled out his fingers and put his hands on either side of John's head to hold himself up. He positioned himself at John's entrance and slid in. Even though he had stretched him, John was still tight around him, but it felt amazing.

John shut his eyes tightly, releasing a groan from deep in his throat. It hurt-he was under no delusions that this was painless, because it certainly wasn't. But the pleasure far outweighed the pain. "Sherlock," he gasped. "God." How could every moment with this man be so indescribably perfect?

It was coming more naturally now. Sherlock pulled out almost all the way before thrusting in again, faster and harder this time. "Ngh...John," he groaned out, thrusting again. The sensation was incredible and he had never felt so fully connected with John before. He buried his face John's neck, kissing him there again as he started falling into a rhythm.

John was reduced to rather uncharacteristic whimpers and moans as Sherlock set a pace. He could hardly think straight, much less form words. He reached down to stroke himself, focusing on timing the movement of his hand with Sherlock's thrusts.

Sherlock was practically growling, the noises John was making bringing him closer. He propped himself on one elbow while his other hand grabbed John's free one, lacing their fingers together. He started to move faster, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer, but he tried to hold back for just a little more.

John's rhythm faltered as he came apart underneath Sherlock Holmes. He was sure no one else could undo him so completely. He let out a desperate, choked cry as he reached his climax. "S-Sherlock!"

As soon as John finished he let himself go, crying out in a similar fashion, "John!" He lost all feeling for a moment as he rode out the high, then he flopped onto his side with a goofy smile. Breathing hard, he pressed sloppy kisses all over John's face.

John laughed. "Sherlock," he gasped. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" He couldn't quell the grin on his face.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, giggling. "I just love your face." He kissed him on the lips, soft and sweet.

John kissed him back just as gently, their lips melding perfectly together, as always. "You seem impossibly giddy," he said.

Sherlock just grinned, wrapping his arms around John to pull him in. "I guess I am. But that was just...fantastic." He kissed John again.

"It really was," John agreed, humming softly against Sherlock's neck. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And I love you, John Watson." Sherlock rested his chin in John's hair, sighing contentedly.

John, before he forgot, removed the condom from Sherlock and disposed of it. Then he settled back against Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes.

* * *

Awww their first time :D If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	11. A Wedding to Remember

Hello my lovelies! Here's another chapter for you, and this one is extra long ^^ Thanks so much to everyone who has faved and followed and reviewed since Friday. I know that if my RP buddy knew that you liked our story this much that she would come back and we could keep writing it XD I've been thinking that maybe I could try to pick up where we stopped and continue, but I don't think I can capture her John the same way that she did :( But anyway, steering back on track, I really appreciate you guys reading and enjoying the story ^^

So, for this chapter my RP buddy is playing Jim. And from here on out, I play Mrs. Hudson whenever she's around and my bud plays Molly. Just so you know. Any that's it for now. Sorry for updating late in the day, I was out shopping and then I had to pick up my brother and he took FOREVER -_- But now that the chapter is here, please read and review and fave and I'll see you Friday. Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

On the day of the wedding, Sherlock wasn't anymore than just slightly nervous. After all, there wasn't much reason to be. He and John were basically married already. They lived together and shared funds even before they were a couple. This was just making it official. No reason to be nervous. He tried to ignore the slight flutters in his stomach as he fixed his tuxedo. He would not let himself get worked up. Mycroft and Lestrade watched him with smirks.

"He's always tried to act indifferent to nerves," the older Holmes said, leaning toward the DI. "He's gotten better with time, but our dear Dr. Watson tends to bring out everything he tries to hide."

"I can hear you, you know," Sherlock said. "I'm not nervous. I'm just getting impatient. When does the ceremony start?"

"You've still got a good five minutes, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. "Don't worry. I'm sure John's just as nervous as you. Probably even more nervous."

"I'm not nervous!" Sherlock protested, crossing his arms. "Has it been five minutes yet? This is getting tedious."

Lestrade, though amused, rolled his eyes. "Always dealing with a child," he mumbled to himself. "All right, come on." He took Sherlock's arm and forcefully led him out to the altar, standing just behind him and off to one side.

Sherlock swallowed. Standing in front of the church somehow made him dizzy. He shook his head. This was nothing to be nervous about! He took deep breaths as the organist began to play the wedding march. The doors at the back of the church opened...

**I.:.O.:.U**

John stood with Molly and Mrs. Hudson behind closed doors, anxiously adjusting his tuxedo. It was tradition that the groom didn't see the bride before the ceremony began. Though John wasn't at all sure why he'd been designated the 'bride'. He was beyond nervous. His hands were clammy and his throat felt dry. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he muttered.

"John, don't be ridiculous," Molly huffed, adjusting his bow tie with a smile. "You're not going to throw up. I'm sure Sherlock's nervous, too, but you'll both look dashing, and then you'll just say a few words, kiss, and you'll be married. It's nothing to get so worked up about."

"She's right, dear," said Mrs. Hudson, patting John on the shoulder. "Just relax and before you know it, it will all be over."

John swallowed nervously. "All right," he said. "All right, thank you, Molly. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He embraced each of the women in turn, then faced the closed doors that led into the church, taking a deep breath.

John-alone, he preferred to do this alone-gripped his cane tightly and proceeded down the aisle. His palms were still sweaty. It was embarrassing, and he hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, but of _course_ he would. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. God, did he look dashing.

And there was John, walking towards him, and everything around him seemed to disappear. Just looking John in the eyes he felt his nerves flare and dissipate at the same time. He looked incredibly handsome, sweaty palms and all. Sherlock couldn't keep the smile off of his face as his fiance, very soon to be his husband, made his way to the altar.

At the sight of Sherlock's smile, John found himself with a grin of his own. He maneuvered the few steps up to the altar, and handed his cane to the waiting Lestrade. He can stand properly long enough for this. This. Possibly the most important moment of his entire life to this point. He wiped his palms on the legs of his trousers and reached out to take Sherlock's hands in his as the priest began the ceremony.

Sherlock barely heard anything that the priest was saying, though he knew it was the usual 'Dearly beloved' and all of that. He was too focused on John, standing in front of him, hand in hand with him, about to marry him. He did, however hear when the priest announced that the two of them had written their own vows for each other. "Would you like to go first?" Sherlock asked, smile still plastered on his face.

John nodded and took a deep breath. He squeezed Sherlock's hands, his voice catching in his throat. He felt a bit faint. But one glance at Sherlock's eyes steadied him enough to speak. "Sherlock, I...before I met you, nothing...nothing ever happened to me. I was just a sad, injured soldier with no real direction. And then the moment I let you borrow my phone, everything changed. You brought me back to life, Sherlock. When I thought I'd lost you, I was desperate. I didn't know what to do. But I have you back now, and I'm never, _never_ letting you go again. That's a promise. I love you, Sherlock Holmes." In true Watson fashion, it was disjointed, emotional, entirely impossible to get through without his voice breaking. But the words were nothing but the truth.

Sherlock felt himself choking up at John's words but he swallowed it and smiled. The people in the church clapped and when it died down, he looked into John's eyes and held him there as he began. "John, as you recall, I was basically a machine when we first met. But you didn't seem to see me that way. You understood me and you showed me kindness. Instead of reacting like I was some sort of freak when I did something strange, you just accepted it. You..." He paused, squeezing his eyes shut against tears. "Made me feel again. I thought that caring was a disadvantage, but you've taught me that everyone needs at least one person that they can call a friend. To share a laugh, to have your back, or just to talk to even if they're not right there. I found that in you, and so much more. John Watson...you are my best friend and I love you." Sherlock smiled down at him as a few tears trailed down his face.

John swallowed back a sob. He probably looked a mess, because he was much quicker to cry than Sherlock, and by now his eyes were probably red and his cheeks were probably flushed. But he didn't care. He was overwhelmed. He said 'I do', when prompted, and those two words meant more than he could ever say, more than Sherlock would ever know. The final words were barely out of the priest's mouth before John was lunging forward to kiss Sherlock full on the lips.

Sherlock didn't even know why the priest bothered asking after their vows. He wrapped his arms tightly around John as they kissed for the first time as husbands. Then he scooped him up, smile spreading from ear to ear as he carried him out of the church to the waiting limo (which Mycroft had ensured the safety of ahead of time). Sherlock set John onto his feet so he could climb in then got in himself. He pulled John into him as they started off, nuzzling his face into sandy blonde hair. "My husband..."

John smiled, sighing softly against Sherlock's throat. He loved those words, and he was positive he would never get tired of hearing them. "You know, they do have a reception planned," he said. "Big party. I was planning on actually going, considering it's just for us, even though I know you probably just want to get me into bed right now."

Sherlock laughed. "John, you don't really think I'd skip my own wedding reception? Of course I'd love to take you to bed, but I told you if we're doing this, we're going all the way." He kissed the top of John's head. "I want to dance with you and eat cake and all those other reception things that you probably know more about."

"Sometimes family members and friends give speeches," John warned. "You probably won't want to let Anderson anywhere near the microphone."

"I don't care," Sherlock said. "Not even Anderson's absolute idiocy could ruin this day."

John grinned. "I agree whole-heartedly," he said. When the limo stopped in front of the reception hall, John immediately grabbed his cane. "While I appreciated you carrying me," he drawled. "I'm fine walking in." He smirked.

"Hmph." But he was grinning. "Well, so long as I can have your other hand," Sherlock said. He and John exited the limo and Sherlock took his hand as they walked into the hall. Most of the guests had already arrived and applauded when they walked in.

John found himself blushing, though he wasn't usually a terribly shy person. But he was also grinning, and he just couldn't _stop_ grinning. There was a table set up at the head of the hall just for them and their close friends. He made his way there, holding Sherlock's hand tightly.

Sherlock and John sat at the center, with Greg and Molly to John's right and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock's left. There was already smooth jazz playing from the DJ's speakers and the waiters were pouring out drinks. Sherlock wasn't normally one for parties, especially not ones this elaborate, but this was his wedding day and sod his usual attitude. He was going to celebrate.

John was laughing with Greg, who was already well into his third glass of champagne. He supposed, in a way, Greg was almost like a proud father. He deserved a good amount of alcohol. The whole time, all the way through dinner, he held Sherlock's hand. Why should he let go? And he stole as many kisses as he could. Those lips were his now, completely and utterly.

Sherlock smiled politely to everyone who gave their congratulations. Even Anderson and Donovan grudgingly wished them well. But John did most of the talking to them. That, of course, was perfectly fine with him. When dinner ended they rolled out the cake on a cart right in front of the head table. It was three tiers, elegantly decorated, with two grooms on the top. Sherlock stood with John in front of the cake, both of their hands around the knife handle as they cut into it together. He took a bit of frosting and dabbed it on John's nose, only to kiss it off.

"You two can be adorable after you hand out slices to the rest of us," Mycroft said as calmly as possible, but Sherlock knew he was dying for a piece.

John laughed, because he could practically hear Sherlock's thoughts regarding Mycroft and the cake. "Be nice," he scolded. Together, they cut the cake to serve all of their guests, then returned with their own pieces to the head table. "Well," he said. "At least we know Mycroft thinks we're adorable," he chuckled.

Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft has never called anything adorable before. He'll just say anything to get at a piece of cake." He scooped up a little onto his fork. "Oh well. I think we're adorable, especially you. Open up, love." Sherlock brought the fork closer to John's mouth.

John laughed and happily accepted the bite of cake. "Quite delicious," he said cheerfully. "And my favourite. Good choice. If you'd asked me three years ago, I never would have guessed you'd be calling _anything_ adorable, let alone _me_, or _us_."

"That's because three years ago we weren't _us_, and I would have rather died than say something so sappy." Sherlock offered another bite to John.

John accepted the bite without protest once more. "Hmm, well, you're not allowed to 'rather die' for anything anymore, do you understand me? Living is all you're allowed to do now."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, dear. Except on one point." He looked into John's eyes seriously. "I would rather die than see you die. And that I refuse to compromise on."

John sighed. "Stubborn idiot," he mumbled, and leaned forward to give Sherlock a deep, slow kiss.

Sherlock kissed back, the feeling of John's lips fitting perfectly with his just as amazing as their first kiss.

After a long moment, John pulled away. As always, he was grinning from ear to ear. Nothing could ruin this night.

Of course, he was usually wrong about these things.

The waiters brought the head table a fresh bottle of champagne, and filled everyone's glasses. John, who really hadn't been drinking much at all, took a drink. Instantly, he put his hand over the rim of Sherlock's glass to stop him. "Don't."

"One drink can't hurt, John." He pushed John's hand away.

"Don't!" John said again, and the word was a little more forced, because his throat was beginning to constrict. He looked to Greg and knocked the glass out of his hand before he could drink.

Sherlock looked at the shattered glass on the floor and then back to John, realising that this was about more than his addictive personality. "John?"

John met Sherlock's eyes, the fear and warning in his gaze obvious, though his airways were closing and he doubted he could speak. He put a hand to his throat. His skin was paling, and his eyes were wide, and he couldn't _breathe_. Greg stood, pulling out his mobile in an instant. "The champagne!" he snapped, dialing for an ambulance.

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he clutched at John's shoulders. Everyone around them dropped their glasses and gathered closer. "No! Get back, give him air!" Sherlock shouted at them and they retreated. The detective started to panic. He could tell John couldn't breathe but he didn't know how to do CPR. He untied his bowtie and unbuttoned his collar to try and help but he could see John turning red in the face, then blue. "No, no, not now. John, just hang on, help is coming!" Now Sherlock was feeling like he couldn't breathe.

Lestrade, still on the phone, reached over with one hand and gripped Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him back. Molly slipped into the opening created and started to give John CPR. "An ambulance is on the way, Sherlock," Greg said.

Sherlock felt completely numb, watching as Molly tried to breathe for John. Why had he thought that they were safe? He supposed he had just wished that today at least, they could have a break. He should have known better; there would not be a single minute that he could let his guard down until Jim Moriarty's body was lying at his feet.

When the paramedics arrived, they rushed inside, surrounding John and pulling both Sherlock and Molly away. They multi-tasked, maneuvering him onto a stretcher while snaking a tube down his throat to open his airwaves. Lestrade kept a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, supporting him.

Mycroft started muttering to the various paramedics, using whatever magic methods he had to make sure that they weren't dangerous. Then he stepped out to speak with the driver. Sherlock couldn't even move as they took John out of the hall on the stretcher. These incidents were becoming routine now, and he was just so tired of it. He turned around to face Lestrade. "Drive me. First stop at the flat. I need patches."

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding once. He brought Sherlock out to his car. They stopped off at 221B, before continuing on to the hospital. "He'll be all right, Sherlock," Greg assured him. "You know he will. He always is."

Sherlock secured three patches onto his arm and closed his eyes. He had his knees drawn up to his chin and he breathed deeply as the nicotine kicked in. "No, I don't know," he snapped. "And if he is, how long will it last? This bloody game...When I get my hands on Jim Moriarty he will be sorry he _ever_ crossed paths with Sherlock Holmes." He wrung his hands together before running them through his hair.

"We're on your side," Lestrade told him. "The police will help in anyway they can." They arrived at St. Bart's, and he parked as close to the entrance as he could, for Sherlock's sake.

Sherlock opened the door immediately and started to get out. He paused halfway and muttered, "Thank you..." before he jumped up and ran into the hospital ahead of him. He went straight to the desk. "Where is he?" By now they knew him well enough at St. Bart's to know exactly who he was talking about.

"Upstairs," the nurse said. "Room 304."

John was tucked into a hospital bed, as he had been such an unfortunate number of times before. His shallow breathing fogged the oxygen mask strapped to his face, and his eyes were closed in a drug-induced sleep.

Sherlock practically flew up the stairs, having no patience for the lift. He ran down the hall, nearly crashing into a few nurses along the way and rounded the corner to room 304. He stepped in and there was John hooked up to an oxygen machine, heart monitor, and more. Sherlock's lips curled in over his teeth as he felt himself choking up. He was grateful that John was alive, but he couldn't stand to see him like this. Pulling a chair up next to the bed, Sherlock gently took his husband's hand and held it to his cheek. "I swear to you, John, I will end this," he whispered, voice breaking.

"How sweet," came a voice. Jim Moriarty sat in a chair in one of the shadowed corners of the room, grinning at Sherlock. "Very touching, really. And the ceremony was beautiful. Did you like my gift? I see the poor doctor wasn't very fond of it."

Sherlock whipped his head to face him, hand automatically going for his gun but realising that he didn't have it. He hadn't thought he'd need it. "You _really_ shouldn't have," he said calmly but his voice was laced with venom.

"Oh, you're _angry_, Sherlock," Jim tutted. "You really have gotten soft. Your dear brother was right. Caring is a disadvantage. The Sherlock I know and love would have suspected that poison. I left you lots of little clues, but you didn't riddle any of it out. Pity."

"Clues? What clues?" Sherlock furrowed his brow trying to think. But all he could remember from that day was anything to do with John. He clenched his fist. He was becoming careless.

"The seal on the bottle," Jim said, sounding bored. "Some marks on the waiter's fingers, showing he'd been tampering with drugs. Several other miniscule things that normal people would never notice. But you would, of course. Oh...but you didn't." He tsked, smirking.

Yes, he had certainly become careless. Ironically because he cared too much. Sherlock kept his cool facade as he spoke. "You still haven't managed to finish us off though. Doesn't that mean you're slacking a bit too?"

"Oh, no, not at all!" Jim sang. "I'm just having fun. Because it is fun, Sherlock, watching you squirm. Seeing that delicious fear in your eyes whenever John is in danger."

Fear that was still present in his mind at that very moment. But Sherlock took deep breaths and stayed calm. "Well, if you don't intend to kill us at present, then I believe we're done here."

"Oh, I'm hurt, Sherlock," Jim said, standing. "You don't want me to stick around?"

"I did just get married. You know how newlywed couples like to have their alone time." Sherlock stood as well, watching closely.

"I can't imagine the sex will be anything too exciting, with John unconscious," Jim drawled, amused. "Well, ta-ta for now, Sherlock, my dear." He put his hands in his pockets and strolled easily out of the room.

Sherlock watched him go. How he wished he'd brought his gun so he could shoot his brains out. He waited a few moments to ensure he was gone then let his shoulders drop. Sherlock took to the chair by John's bedside again, taking hold of his hand and kissing it gently. What was he going to do?

**I.:.O.:.U**

It wasn't until the next morning that John stirred, and in that time, Lestrade had been in and out a few dozen times, alternating between checking on Sherlock and taking care of the police work involved in the situation. John's eyes instantly sought out Sherlock.

Sherlock had been in and out of the room. Waiting for John to wake up had become tedious and he was antsy. After his third trip to the cafeteria without getting anything to eat, he returned to see John with his eyes open. Sherlock practically leaped toward the bed and grasped his hand. "John! How long have you been awake?"

John blinked at him for a moment, blearily. "Just a few minutes," he said. "How long was I _not_ awake?"

"About a day, give or take." Sherlock ran a hand over his forehead and smoothed back his hair. "How do you feel?"

"Exhausted," John murmured. "But I'm starting to get used to that. Thank God you didn't drink the wine. Did anyone else? Are Lestrade and the others okay?"

"Everyone is fine. Everyone but you, love." Sherlock sighed. "You missed a visit from our dear friend, Jim."

John clenched his teeth. "Dear friend, indeed," he growled. "And what did he have to say, this time? More games?"

Sherlock nodded then was quiet for a moment. "It was my fault." He closed his eyes. "He planted clues and I didn't even see them!"

"Sherlock, no," John said. "No! This was not your fault. We've talked about this, about you blaming yourself."

"But I could have prevented it! They were obvious things that I should have seen!" Sherlock stood and started walking around. "I've never felt so stupid, so utterly useless. I should have never come back."

At that, John felt breathless with anger. "What?" he whispered, but that whisper turned to a roar. "WHAT?!"

Sherlock jumped a little at John's outburst and turned back towards him. It was the loudest he had ever heard him before.

"How could you even think of saying something like that?!" John yelled. "You, Sherlock Holmes, my _husband,_ wishing you'd never come back? Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!"

"John..." Sherlock felt himself choking up. "Don't you see what's happened because of me? What will continue to happen? You were safe while I was gone."

"God damn it all...damn it, Sherlock! Calling you fantastically ignorant...that was the most accurate statement I've ever made! Do you never _listen_ to me?!" John was breathing heavily, very worked up, a nearby monitor beeping frantically as his heart raced. "I've told you a hundred times that I don't bloody _care_ what happens to me, so long as _you_ are here with me!"

"Well, I _do_ care! I hear everything you're saying, but that doesn't matter! I will not watch you die or be the cause of your death!" Sherlock put his hands over his face in exasperation.

"So what are you going to do, Sherlock?" John shouted. "Are you going to leave again?!"

Sherlock looked at John, feeling his throat closing up. He didn't want to leave. No, he couldn't leave. There was no way he could be away from John now. He knew he _should_ leave to protect him, but he was too selfish. "No. I'm not going anywhere."

John settled back against his pillows, struggling to breathe evenly. "Good. Very good."

"Oh, John...I'm sorry." Sherlock went back to the side of the bed, smoothing back John's hair. "I'm just..._terrified_ for you."

"Well, I've made it this far, haven't I?" John huffed, turning his face into Sherlock's touch. "I'll be fine. I just need you with me."

"Alright. I won't say it again." Sherlock was still thinking about it, but for John's sake he wouldn't say anything.

John laid back, closing his eyes, exhaustion sweeping through his body. "When are they letting me out of here this time?" he asked.

"Once they're sure that the drug is completely out of your system. It shouldn't be more than another day." Sherlock continued smoothing his hand over his husband's hair. "You should go back to sleep, love."

"Can't I sleep the drug off at home?" John asked petulantly, but he already knew the answer. He needed to be monitored. "Sherlock," he mumbled after a long moment of silence. "We're married."

Sherlock smiled softly. "I know." He leaned over, letting his lips linger on John's forehead.

"That's a great feeling," John murmured. "Now we just need to kill Moriarty, so we can get back to work on those adoption papers."

"And we can have our family and live happily ever after?" One side of his mouth tilted up in a smirk.

"I think happily ever after is a bit unrealistic, for us," John said, returning Sherlock's smirk with a slight twitch of his lips. "Let's start with general safety."

"Sounds like a good start." Sherlock kissed his forehead again. "Now you really should get some more sleep. I need my husband healthy." Husband. Still fun to say.

"You'll stay, right?" John asked, then smiled. "Why do I even bother asking? Of course you'll stay."

"Yes, I will." Sherlock smiled back. "I promise." He sat back down in the chair next to John's bed, taking hold of one if his hands.

John closed his eyes. "This will all turn out okay, Sherlock," he assured him. He would keep his good humour till the end. He wasn't going to let Moriarty win, not in any sense of the word.

Sherlock nodded though he knew John couldn't see. They would find a way. They always did. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Sherlock," John said, and drifted slowly off to sleep.

* * *

What could possibly happen next? If you want to find out, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	12. The Doctor's Idea

Alright guys, here's another long chapter :D :D :D This one is pretty dialogue heavy (and also includes some sexy tiems) but you know, I feel like it makes it more real. It's part of the reason why I've always loved this story, because I feel like they could easily translate it into an episode, and I that would just be the coolest thing ever ghsgjkshgk But that'll never happen T_T So for now, you guys will just have to enjoy it yourselves. ^^

Anyway, thanks to everyone who faved and followed and read and reviewed since Monday. It increases with every post, and I'm just sorry that there's only a few chapters left after this :( I've been thinking of emailing my RP buddy, just to let her know that I've been posting and asking if maybe she has time to keep going. But idk. What do you guys think? It could possibly mean more story...

Either way, I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and please continue to show your love because it really means a lot to me. I'll see you Monday! Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

They released John from the hospital the next day and the newlyweds returned to 221B. Their friends stopped by the flat to see how they were doing (Sherlock hadn't wanted anyone to disturb John in the hospital so that he got enough rest), and soon they were alone again. Sherlock had started sifting through the wedding gifts, checking each one with extreme care to be sure that there was no possibility that they were poisoned, booby trapped, or in any way dangerous.

John leaned over the back of the chair where Sherlock was perched and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. He held out a mug of tea. "You need to relax," he advised. "Lestrade's already checked them once. I'm sure he didn't miss anything."

Sherlock accepted the mug but didn't stop. "You may put all your faith in the dear DI, but he is still an idiot. I am not taking any chances." He turned a strangely shaped package over in his hands slowly.

"Lestrade isn't an idiot, Sherlock," John scolded. "He does his best, and he was very thorough with all of this."

"You know what I mean. And you can never be too careful." Taking a gulp of his tea, he continued his inspection of the gifts. "So far none of these are dangerous, if you'd like to look at them yourself." He gestured to a small pile on one side.

John sighed, plopping down on the couch and reaching for the first on the pile of gifts. "Moriarty said something to you, didn't he?" he said quietly, after a long moment. "He told you you were getting soft, or missing things, or something like that. That's why you're being so paranoid. You can't let him get to you like that, Sherlock."

Sherlock's fingers tightened only just a hair around the gift he was examining at John's words. "I'm not letting him get to me. He's trying to kill you and he'll do it in any way that he thinks possible. Why shouldn't I be cautious?"

"So I was right, then," John murmured. He ran a hand tiredly over his face, then took a long sip of his tea. "It's going to be okay," he insisted. "Everything's going to be all right."

"Yes. So long as we proceed from this point with extreme care." He put the gift into the 'safe' pile and grabbed another. "Anything of interest? I haven't actually paid attention to what they are."

"Nothing you'd find very interesting," John said. "Your basic wedding gifts. New sets of dishes, towels...those sorts of things. Also, this is from Molly." He held up a book about parenting. "I think it's a hint that she wants us to get on with the adoption so she can babysit."

Sherlock peered over at the book for a moment before taking it from John. He put it in his lap and then continued his inspection. He would read it later. "The sooner we finish this business with Moriarty, the sooner we can let Molly live out her dreams of parenting through our child."

John smiled. "You know, Sherlock, you're going to have to clean up some of your experiments. This flat isn't very child-proof."

Sherlock frowned, looking around the flat. Besides the new chemistry set that he had gotten after the fire, there was also his and John's guns, and a refrigerator full of human body parts. Quite an abnormal setting for a childhood home. "I suppose you're right. It is a bit of a dangerous environment for a child to grow up in. Then again, we're dangerous parents to be raised by."

"Yes, but we're going to have to pass some sort of inspection before we're even granted adoption rights," John reasoned. "So we need to make it at least reasonably safe, okay?"

"You're right," Sherlock said with a nod. "I'll clean up later, I promise." He grinned at his husband, then looked back down at the gift in his hands. "Hopefully they won't read your blog, though. Something tells me that it won't help our cause."

"Well, that's why we have Mycroft on our side," John reasoned. "I'm sure he'll be able to help."

Sherlock chuckled. "Potentially he could skip us over the entire process."

"Well, yeah, but that just feels like cheating a bit, doesn't it?" John said, smiling. "We should have at least part of the experience."

"Of course. You know I don't like going to him for help anyway," Sherlock said. "I would only ask if we were in desperate need."

"I know," John said. "Which still seems strange to me, considering how very helpful he is." He set the gifts aside and stood. "What do you want for dinner? Is there even anything edible in the fridge?"

"Not likely," Sherlock said. "Shall we order in?"

"Like always?" John chuckled. "Yeah." He grabbed his phone. "You know, that's going to have to change, too. We can't feed the kid take out all the time."

"Then I guess you'll have to learn to cook," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Oh?" John quirked an eyebrow as he dialed their favourite take out place. "And who says _you_ won't be the one learning to cook?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It seems like it's more your area. I hardly even eat."

"_That_ will have to change, as well," John huffed. "You can't be setting such a poor example for our son. Honestly."

"You know I can't eat if I'm on a case," Sherlock said. "My energies are needed for more important things than digestion."

"You do realise that food gives you _more_ energy?" John said. "You need to feed yourself, Sherlock. Really."

Sherlock tutted. "It's never worked that way for me. Don't worry, John. I know my limits."

"Sometimes I doubt that," John said. "But all right. If you collapse, I won't hesitate to say I told you so."

"If I collapse, I know that you'll be there to catch me," Sherlock said with a wink. "Then say you told me so."

"Damn it," John said, huffing. "Yes, of course I'll be there to catch you. You're right. How could I not? I wish I had been before..."

"Be glad that you weren't. If you had then the whole plan would have been put to ruin and you would have died," Sherlock said. "Not to mention the fact that I might have crushed you what with my speed of falling and being a bit bigger than you."

"You're taller than me," John contradicted. "Not bigger. I weigh more than you. More muscle, you know. You're a bit scrawny." He smiled.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "If I was so scrawny I wouldn't be able to carry you."

"I'm still stronger than you," John said. "I'm in military shape." Or he had been, before his limp had become a real and permanent thing.

"Your military shape is deteriorating," Sherlock said, waving a hand.

"Right..." John muttered. He was a bit sensitive to the loss of strength, and the bit of flab that had appeared as of late. But he supposed Sherlock wouldn't understand those sensitivities.

Sherlock glanced over at him and saw the disgruntled look on his face. Had he said something wrong? "John?"

"What is it, Sherlock?" John mumbled, turning a teapot over in his hands that Mrs. Hudson had gifted them with.

"I love you," Sherlock said, hoping that this would make up for whatever he had said that bothered John.

John gave the slightest of smiles, not quite ready to be shaken from his lamentation of his physique. "I love you, too, Sherlock," he replied automatically.

Sherlock could tell that John was still bothered and he frowned. Getting up, he went over to him and wrapped his arms around him from behind. He buried his face in John's shoulder. "I'm sorry. What was it?"

"What was what?" John asked, leaning back into Sherlock's arms without question. "What are you talking about?"

"I said something that bothered you," Sherlock said. "What was it?"

John set Mrs. Hudson's gift down and sighed. "It's nothing, Sherlock. I know you didn't mean to upset me. I suppose I'm just a bit sensitive about having gotten, well...flabby."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, tightening his arms around John. "You're not flabby. Your body is just reacting normally now that you're not regularly exercising anymore. But you're still strong." He kissed John's temple. "Stronger than me," he admitted more quietly.

"I'm not happy with that, Sherlock," John grumbled. "I hate being so limited." He tapped the side of his bum leg. "I want to be in the kind of shape I used to be in."

Sherlock felt guilt in the pit of his stomach. Maybe John's body was naturally reverting, but it was Sherlock's fault that he was limping again. He wouldn't say that out loud, though, knowing John would be even more upset. "I know, love. I wish I could fix it for you."

"Well, you can't, Sherlock," John said, more sharply than he'd intended to. "No one can."

Sherlock pulled back, a little stung. He let go of John and looked at the floor slanting his mouth. "Right. I'm sorry."

"God, no, Sherlock, no," John said hastily. Sometimes, he fondly remembered the days when Sherlock hadn't had feelings to hurt. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped."

Sherlock looked up shaking his head and smiling faintly. "I'm fine, John, really. You have every right to be upset. I don't understand how you feel, so it must be frustrating when I act like I do."

"I just have to adjust, Sherlock," John murmured. "I'm not used to being so...helpless. It's going to take some time, but it doesn't give me any right to be angry with you, or to be short with you. So I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock said again. "I'm sorry I got you upset in the first place." Just then there was a knock downstairs signaling their take out had arrived. Sherlock went down to get it without another word.

John heaved another sigh. Sighing was becoming a familiar pastime. He rose, grabbing his cane, and limped to the kitchen to get a fresh cup of tea.

Sherlock returned a moment later with the food and laid it out on the table. He sat and opened all the boxes, sniffing them and looking for any sign that they had been tampered with. It seemed there was no trace of anything so he grabbed plates and forks and scooped out a little for himself.

John rolled his eyes a bit, though he knew Sherlock was just being cautious, and honestly, it was probably a very good idea. He filled a plate, before thinking twice and putting just a little bit back. He wanted to get back in shape, at least somewhat, and he had a bad habit of eating way too much takeout.

Sherlock saw John scraping some of the food back into the container but didn't say anything. They could probably both do without the constant take out, for more than just weight issues. He picked at his food in silence.

"Have you thought about how we're going to do this?" John asked. "I mean, he's already proven that he's impossible to find unless he _wants_ to be found. And he's proven that he can pretty much kill any of us by wiggling his little finger."

Sherlock shook his head. "I have thought about it but I have no ideas. I've been distracted." His eyes flashed to the ring on his finger but only for a second, not noticeable. "It's obvious that we can't find him. If only we could find a way to get him to come to us on our terms..." He chewed thoughtfully, looking at the ceiling.

"I'd suggest offering myself up as bait, but I doubt you'd ever let me do that," John said, only partially joking.

"Of course not." Sherlock looked at John and could see the little hint of seriousness behind the joke in his eyes. "John, no. Never."

"Sherlock, it could work!" John said, leaning forward. He put a hand on Sherlock's knee. "It could draw him out. And I would be fine. I'm sure I would."

"Absolutely not. You've already had too many accidental near death experiences. I don't need to create one myself. If anything went wrong..." Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"I don't see any other options, Sherlock," John said. "We need to draw him in, and it's the best idea we have. Honestly."

Sherlock frowned. John did have a point but his life had been risked so many times already. But if this could potentially finish Moriarty...He sighed, resigned. "Alright. But we are going to take _every_ precaution."

"Of course, Sherlock," John assured him. "I'll wear a bulletproof vest. I'll be wired. There'll be police officers. I promise, I'll be okay."

Sherlock nodded. He was worried, terrified. But if it worked he wouldn't have to feel that way anymore. "Alright. Then let's come up with a plan."

"Of course," John agreed. "We should consult with Lestrade. He'll be able to help us, help us plan and get us the police help we need."

"Obviously. And I suppose we should speak with Mycroft," Sherlock said grudgingly. He put his hands together beneath his chin and thought. "We need to make it look unplanned. If he is even the tiniest bit suspicious it could all fall to ruin."

John grinned. "Out of everyone I know, Sherlock, I know you'll be able to manage it. You're going to win this game. Of course you are." He sat back, frowning thoughtfully. "We could stage a lovers' quarrel, maybe? I'm sure I could think of some convincingly angry things to say to you." He graced Sherlock with an amused smirk.

Sherlock matched his expression. "Out of everyone _I_ know, no one has more reasons to have a shouting match with me than you, John."

John grinned again, more entertained by this than he probably should have been. "I won't lie, Sherlock. I'm actually a bit excited to have the opportunity to publicly degrade you. Might help me burn off some steam."

"Hmph. Nice to see how loved I really am," Sherlock said, feigning hurt. "Just don't take it too far. Subtlety tends to speak volumes."

"As if you would know anything about subtlety," John snorted. He broke into a laugh.

Sherlock quirked his mouth to the side. "Well, that's why you'll be the one doing most of the talking." He turned away a little to look at the wall.

"I suppose it would seem more realistic for me to just shout abuse at you," John agreed. "You've never been the confrontational type. You don't argue with people, usually. They yell at you, and you silently sit by and contemplate calling them idiots."

"You know me so well," Sherlock said, a bit sarcastically. "Of course I don't say anything. I only argue when someone is wrong."

John blinked at that, a bit stunned. "Wait, so...when you just sit there silently, you...you're tacitly agreeing with me? And not just me, I mean...everyone who argues with you? That's good to know. I always thought you just couldn't be bothered to argue with idiots."

"I know when I'm wrong, John. I'm just not going to admit it to your face." Sherlock didn't look into his eyes, biting on the prongs of his fork.

John snorted fondly. "Right, of course. Too much pride for that."

Sherlock smirked. "Why do you think I didn't want you to post the unfinished cases on the blog?"

John shot him a smile. "I still think it's good for people to read about the unsolved ones. Makes you seem more reachable. A little less intimidating."

"Intimidating is helpful. If people are going to give me work, they need to believe that I can do it. Unsolved cases only leads to uncertainty in my abilities and then no cases for me." Sherlock picked up his dish and put it in the sink.

John rolled his eyes. "It hasn't made much of a difference," he said. "Seems plenty of people still want you to solve cases for them."

"But I might have had that many more," Sherlock said, poking his tongue out a little.

"You already have more than you can handle, sometimes," John said. "And you're going to need to lighten the work load a bit, if there's going to be a kid involved."

Sherlock was about to retort, but then he realised what John had said. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Don't worry," John replied. "I'm sure you won't be too bored. Kids take work, or so I've heard."

"I hope you're right," Sherlock said. "Once this whole Moriarty thing is over, I have a feeling that things are going to be quiet around London."

John arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Things are never quiet for us, Sherlock. Never."

"No. Not exactly. But with Moriarty's absence there will be a bit of a lack in crime." Sherlock shrugged.

"Please don't tell me you're disappointed about that," John said wearily. "We could do without as much crime."

"No crime means no cases, and no cases means I'm out of work. That doesn't mean I don't want to kill Moriarty," he added quickly. "That vile man will pay in blood for everything he's done to you." Sherlock's hand balled into a fist.

"Calm down, Sherlock," John said quickly. "Believe me, I hate him just as much as you do, but you can't let him get you so worked up. You need to be calm. Focused."

Sherlock sighed and let his hand relax. "Yes. You're right." He came over to where John was sitting and put his hands on his shoulders. "He only gets me this way because he's nearly taken you from me over and over."

"But I'm still here," John said firmly. "Just as I've said I would be. I won't be going anywhere. No matter what Moriarty does, Sherlock, he can't take me away from you."

"I know," Sherlock said, and he knew there was a morbid truth in those words. If in the end it was out of John's control to return, if something happened that was final, then Sherlock knew exactly what he would do next so they would never be apart. But he didn't like to think of that possibility. Sherlock leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

John smiled at him. "I can't believe there was ever a time when we weren't a couple," he said. "Everybody else obviously saw it long before we did."

"Seems like such a cliche," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "From one of those silly movies that women like so much."

"Well, maybe," John hummed. "But I like those silly movies. They all have happy endings, you know."

"Yes, that's true," Sherlock said with a smile. "Hopefully we'll get ours too."

John chuckled. "Hopefully, eventually. I have a feeling, though, that with you and I, the movie's never going to end. Not really. I think we'll be old and grey and still solving crimes together."

Sherlock let out a loud laugh. "I can easily see that. But that's fine with me. A life of doing what I love with who I love."

John couldn't help but give a sunny grin in response to Sherlock's laughter. "Lestrade will still be calling you with cases."

"In between changing Anderson's adult diapers," Sherlock snorted. "Oh no, that will be Sally's job." He threw his head back laughing.

John's grin brightened, if that was even possible. It was good to see Sherlock in high spirits again. "You're terrible," he said fondly.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths, but there was still a broad smile on his face. "Shame on me," he said, mock slapping himself. "Are you prepared to do something about it, Doctor Watson?"

"What do you suggest I do, Mr. Holmes?" John asked, smirking.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and matched John's smirk. "Teach me a lesson," he said, then leaned in close and whispered, "However you see fit."

John grabbed his collar and pulled him down into a deep, long, loving kiss.

Sherlock's hands moved to John's upper arms, holding himself up as he kissed his husband back. He pressed in as close as possible, parting his lips.

John happily tilted his head, and parted his own lips to lock with Sherlock's. He hummed pleasantly into the kiss, one hand carding through those dark curls that he loved so very much.

Sherlock let out a soft pleased sound and slid his tongue out to run over John's bottom lip. One knee moved onto the chair next to John's leg, pushing himself up a little higher.

John gave a soft moan. "I definitely think you should bring me to bed right about now," he breathed.

Sherlock looked down at him with half-lidded eyes and nodded. He pulled back and picked John up bridal style. Sherlock kept their lips connected as he carried John to the bedroom.

John looped his arms around Sherlock's neck. He pressed forward into the kiss, maintaining as much contact as possible. The closer he was to Sherlock, the more whole he felt.

Sherlock didn't bother trying to untangle himself from John as they reached the bed. He laid John down and climbed on after him, pressing his body down on top of him and leaving no space between them.

"God, Sherlock..." John moaned softly into his lips. He lifted his hips, rolling them languidly against his husband's. Husband. That felt great to think.

Sherlock groaned deep in his chest at the friction. His own hips responded in kind as he moved to kiss under John's ear.

John gave a soft, shuddering gasp. He remembered when this was all very new to Sherlock. But the detective obviously picked things up quickly. He was a professional, now, knowing all of the right ways to make John moan and squirm.

Sherlock moved his kisses down to John's collar bone as his hands slid under John's jumper. This wasn't the first time they had done this but it felt extra special for him since it was the first time as a married couple. He wanted it to be slow and enjoyable.

Every one of Sherlock's touches set John's skin on fire. Goosebumps ran along his arms as arousal set in. In moments, he'd banished his jumper, tossing the hindering garment away.

Sherlock chuckled, voice husky. "Eager?" He rolled his hips in one long, slow motion, making himself groan but knowing it would drive John mad.

John's eyes nearly rolled back in his head, and he let out a long, deep, throaty moan. "God, Sherlock Holmes, you incredible tease..." he rasped.

"You love it." Sherlock moved back up to kiss him while his hands roamed over John's bare chest. He grasped one of John's nipples between his long fingers and gently rolled it. His other hand had slid down to John's trousers and were working at his belt.

John's hands soon joined Sherlock's, both eager and impatient. Within seconds, he'd undone his belt, quickly followed by the button on his trousers, then the zipper. He lifted his hips, so that the trousers could be pulled down and off, and finally be out of their way.

Sherlock pulled back enough so that he could see all of John, naked beneath him. His eyes raked down John's body slowly taking in everything and back up again. "You are so beautiful..." he whispered before leaning down to kiss him again.

John chuckled breathily against his lips. "You say that," he murmured. "And every time, I can't help but think you're lying. I'm not the beautiful one in this relationship, Sherlock. Not even close."

"Shut up, John. You know I would never lie to you," Sherlock said, ending the sentence with a kiss. "You are gorgeous, and I will say it everyday until you believe it."

"You might be saying it for a very, very long time, then," John said. "And you most certainly would lie to me, you idiot. You're just lucky I never take offense." He leaned up to return Sherlock's kiss. "Now, I think maybe I shouldn't be the only one naked."

Sherlock chuckled a little since he had lied about lying to John. "Well, I wouldn't lie about that. But that's fine I like saying it." He smirked down at John. "Would you like to do the honours?" he asked.

"I'd better," John decided with a very clinical nod. There was a smirk on his face, though, fond and amused and very much excited. "Otherwise you'd have the opportunity to be a tease again." He started to remove Sherlock's clothing, peeling each layer away from his perfect, pale skin with quick finesse.

Sherlock groaned softly as John's hands brushed past his arousal and his eyes fluttered shut. It wasn't long before he was completely bare above John. He lowered himself down so that there was no space between them and rolled his hips again. "God, John..."

John's breath caught sharply in his throat, then released in a lengthy, low moan as his hips moved against Sherlock's. He could hardly think in moments like these, but for the most obvious thought. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

John's movement resulted into a strangled sound from Sherlock. He buried his face in John's neck and continued to grind against him.

John gave a choked groan and bucked up against Sherlock, his hands wandering down the man's back, to his hips, then his thin thighs. "Stop...teasing me...damn you..."

Sherlock tried to laugh but it was caught halfway between that and a groan. He kissed the spot under John's ear. "Sorry," he said, though he wasn't at all. He sat up and reached for the lube and condoms. He rolled the condom on then squirted some lube on his fingers and reached under John to push one finger in.

John felt every muscle tighten around Sherlock's finger, sending a shock of pleasure running along his spine, electrifying him. "God, Sherlock..." he moaned, his hands happily and excitedly gripping the curve of the other man's arse.

Sherlock smirked, not only enjoying John's reaction, but also the current position of his hands. He wondered what else he could make John do. After adding a second finger, he curled the digits and scraped them along his husband's inner walls. He had heard there was supposed to be a special spot, if only he could find it...

"G-GOD!" John screamed, his whole body alighting with pleasure. He arched his back, curving against the all-encompassing sensation. His hands traveled up Sherlock's back, coming to rest on his shoulders, gripping as he gasped through the feeling.

Ah, there it was. "Nope, just me," Sherlock teased, voice husky. He added one last finger and angled them towards the spot again.

John struggled to bite back another scream, not feeling the need to alert Mrs. Hudson to the current...goings on. He writhed beneath Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't wait anymore. Just watching and listening to John was making him ache to release. He pulled his fingers out and slicked himself with some lube. Balancing himself over John, he positioned and slowly pushed into him, groaning at the friction.

John tossed his head back, a sharp gasp ripping from his lungs, his whole body tensing at the oh-so-welcome intrusion. "God, yes..." he breathed. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock wasted no time in setting a pace, though he kept it even at first. With each thrust he tried to go a little deeper, and after a little he angled towards John's sweet spot again.

John bit his knuckle, struggling not to scream. It was nearly impossible, but again, Mrs. Hudson really didn't need to know what was going on. His eyes rolled back at the sheer pleasure, his body contorting as he moaned.

Sherlock knew John was holding back because of Mrs. Hudson and he grunted in frustration as a result. He would have to change that. Sherlock was close to losing his ability to speak completely, but he had enough in him to bend low and breathe into John's ear, "Come on, love, scream for me. I don't care who hears it," as he thrust into him again.

John obeyed immediately, a scream rising from low in his chest. He was sure the entire city could hear it. The dead could probably hear it. The release sent him over the edge, and his vision whited out as he came, his scream tapering into soft, blissful whimpers and harsh pants.

That and a few more quick thrusts had Sherlock climaxing as well and crying out loudly. His toes curled and he squeezed his eyes shut as pleasure coursed through him. Trying to get his breathing to return to normal, he collapsed on top of John and relaxed.

"Jesus, Sherlock..." John gasped, his arms snaking around the man's waist and holding tightly. They were a sticky, sweaty mess, but John didn't care. He panted against Sherlock's cheek, shuddering with pleasure in the wake of his release.

Sherlock returned the embrace, slipping his arms under John's back. He rolled them over so they were on their sides. "So amazing..." he said as words returned to him and kissed John lovingly a few times.

"It always is," John agreed pleasantly. He returned each of Sherlock's kisses tenderly.

Sherlock reached down and took off the condom, tossing it away before snuggling under the covers with John. He nuzzled his face in his husband's hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too," John breathed. He would enjoy this moment, because soon, they would have to start consulting Lestrade and Mycroft on plans to draw out Moriarty...using John as the bait.

* * *

We approach the climax...If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	13. The Plan to End it All

Okay, I just have to say that I have been excited about posting this chapter since I started posting the story XD This is it, the battle, and personally one of my favourtie parts of the story. I still remember when we were writing this, I was freaking out the whole time and it was so intense because we really didn't have an exact plan in mind, we were just winging it. But I won't give too much away just now, you can read and find out yourselves. ;]

Anyway, as always I'd like to thank my loyal readers, and any new faves or follows or reviews that have popped up since Friday. And I'd like to ask that if you actually read my ANs that you please write Blooper's Surprise in your review XD Just an experiment. Now I'll shut up and let you read, so please enjoy as always! Love ya!

~SXS

P.S. I play Jim through this whole chapter and I was very proud of myself for it, but please tell me if you think that I did anything wrong. Thanks ^^

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

The next few days were spent in a combination of planning, preparing, and worrying for Sherlock. They had everything just about set for their trap from exactly what John would wear to hide the wire and bulletproof vest, to the basics of what he would say during their 'fight'. Sherlock was getting very anxious, however, as the time drew closer to when they would actually execute their plan. He paced the flat, played loud, cat-screech-sounding notes on his violin, and started experiments that never got finished, leaving the chemicals wherever. And he was clingy. Very clingy. He rarely let John stray even one room away from him, as if he would suddenly drop dead if Sherlock couldn't see him anymore.

"Sherlock!" John huffed in irritation the third time that the man followed him into the kitchen when he went to refresh his cup of coffee. "What in the-I'm not going to disappear from the next room, Sherlock! You'd hear something, at least. Go back to the sitting room and just...sit. You're driving me up a wall." He understood very well why Sherlock was acting this way. That really didn't make it any less bothersome.

Sherlock quirked his mouth to the side. He knew he was acting ridiculous but he just couldn't help it. But at John's outburst he mumbled and went back into the sitting room, though he couldn't sit. He picked up his violin again and tried to play but everything came out sounding like screams of bloody murder.

John groaned. "Sherlock," he sighed, marching back into the room with his fresh cup of coffee. "Put the violin down. Stop _thinking_. Sit. Or at this rate, we're definitely not going to have to fake the fight."

Sherlock stopped playing but didn't put the violin down. "I can't sit. I can't just stop thinking, you know that." He dropped the instrument unceremoniously into a chair and started to pace. "This is a horrible idea. There has to be another way to do this. Where are my cigarettes?"

"There are none, because I got rid of them," John said. "Because you absolutely are not allowed to smoke. Patches, Sherlock." His lips pulled down into a frown. "It's going to be fine. You know that. We've planned it all out. There's no way I'm going to get hurt; I promise. I'll be fine. Lestrade's made sure of it."

Sherlock groaned. "Patches won't do anything anymore." He pulled his sleeve up to reveal that he was already wearing four. "Nothing is guaranteed and I don't need to remind you why this is making me act this way." He continued his pacing, mind whirling with scenario upon scenario of how things could go wrong.

"Sherlock," John tried again. "Sherlock!" He grabbed the man's arm and spun him around so they were face-to-face. He looked right into his eyes. "Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I am going to be fine."

Sherlock looked down at John, desperately wanting to believe him but unable to. He bent and kissed him. "I'm sorry. But...you know..." He wound his arms around John's waist.

"I know," John assured him. "I know. But I'm going to be okay. I won't let him hurt me again, and neither will you, or Lestrade, or Mycroft. Everything's going to be fine, Sherlock, and then we'll be done with Moriarty forever."

Sherlock nodded. He was only partially reassured but it was enough to calm him down a little. His hold on John tightened. "Yes. The world will finally be rid of that odious man, and we'll be free. Finally."

John snorted, amused. "Odious," he said. "Of course that's the adjective you would choose. Always going above and beyond." He grinned up at Sherlock, then pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Sherlock finally cracked a smile. "Well, it seemed an appropriate way to describe him. I can't help that I have a wide range of vocabulary."

John laughed softly. "Of course," he said. "I understand." For a moment, he was silent, just holding Sherlock. "Tomorrow. Are you ready?"

Sherlock's smile faded a little. "How could I ever be ready for this?" He smoothed a hand over John's hair. "Are you ready?"

John took a deep, steadying breath. "Yes," he said firmly, decisively. "Yes, I am absolutely ready."

"Well, I suppose one of us needs to be," Sherlock said with a sigh. He looked into John's face and could see his determination. He always admired that; the world was just another battlefield and John was always ready for the next challenge.

"And remember," John said, brushing some invisible dust off of Sherlock's collar. "We don't take offense to anything the other says while we're arguing." He grinned.

"Right." Sherlock nodded once. "Because it's just for show and we're supposed to be vicious."

"Exactly," John chuckled. "And I swear, I don't mean a word of it." He gave him another peck on the cheek, gentle and loving.

Sherlock grinned a little. He still got a warm prickle on his skin wherever John kissed him. "I know," he said. "Don't worry, I'm quite used to verbal assaults. I've learned to not let it get to me."

"Good," John said. He hugged Sherlock tightly, reluctant to ever let him go, when he knew what would soon transpire. John was putting himself in the thick of things. But he was willing to risk it all if it meant getting rid of Moriarty, putting Sherlock's mind at ease, giving them hope for a peaceful future.

**I.:.O.:.U**

The next day they acted as normally as possible. Perhaps even a bit too normal. The only thing out of line of their normal routine was John's putting on some additional garments and wiring under his normal clothes. They went out to dinner, Sherlock trying to ignore the fact that they would soon be screaming at each other (doing it in public was the best place to be sure that Moriarty would see). It was somewhat surreal, and Sherlock was barely holding his composure for all his nerves.

John kept a firm grip on Sherlock's hand throughout dinner, reaching across the table, twisting their fingers together. He desperately hoped things would turn out the way they were supposed to, that everything would go according to plan, but he had to face the reality that this was, possibly, the last moment they would ever be spending together. There was a chance John wouldn't make it through this, or even a chance that Sherlock might die. They were making a leap of faith. He gave Sherlock's hand one last squeeze, then released. "I can't believe you're taking another case," he began. "You know, Sherlock, when I agreed to marry you, I thought, stupidly, I guess, that we might actually be spending some time together."

Sherlock squeezed his hand back, the silent profession of love and the attempt of reassurance not lost on him. Not to say that it really helped. He was impossibly worried still and scared. When John let go though, he knew it was time. This was it: freedom or the end. "We never agreed that I would stop taking cases. That has always been a part of me and I was under the impression that you understood that."

"I do understand that," John huffed, playing off his frustration well, because deep down, it was very real. "But you go running off at all hours of the night, and you don't sleep or eat or talk for days at a time, and you leave me to trail behind you like some helpless puppy, and it's _irritating_."

Sherlock kept his demeanor cold, like he used to. It was actually quite easy to slip back into. His defence mode naturally kicked in like it always had when someone started yelling at him. "Isn't that how it's always been? It's only bothering you now because you let your sentiment get in the way."

"Well, excuse me for feeling sentiment toward my husband!" John said, raising his voice now. "I just want to spend a bit more time with you. You, and not the dead bodies you're examining. You're married to me now, not your work!"

"You knew what you were getting into so you can't blame me for going on as usual." Sherlock shrugged, keeping calm in spite of John's apparent rising anger.

"Yes, I can," John barked. "I can blame you for it. I can blame you for all of it. I can blame you for every bad thing that's ever happened to me because of your stupid obsession with these cases, with being right all the time and showing off and proving to everyone just how damn clever you are!" He stood. Saying these words made him feel sick to his stomach. Sherlock already blamed himself enough, John knew, and he didn't want to be saying these things, because they weren't true. None of it was Sherlock's fault. But it had to be believable...

For just a split second, just because it was John's voice saying those things and because he could see John saying them and he looked so convincing, Sherlock felt it. A sting in his heart that, had it been anyone else, wouldn't have been there, but because it was John it was. He was right, absolutely right. But then his walls built higher to block out the pain, though he knew it was still there. He lifted his chin in defiance and his next words came too easily. "Again, you knew how I was, how I am, and you still agreed to marry me. I can't help that you're an idiot for letting yourself get involved with me."

"And there you go, calling me an idiot again!" John cried. "Honestly, Sherlock, if I'm such an idiot, why the bloody hell did you agree to marry me? It's clear you don't think very highly of me, or consider me a priority! Why did you ever think this might work out between us?"

Sherlock hated this, every second of it. He just wanted to call the whole thing off and hug John and tell him he didn't mean it. But he didn't have a choice. It was time for the clincher. "If you're so unhappy then go. I'm not going to stop you."

John clenched his fingers into trembling fists. It's not real, he had to remind himself. They were acting. Both of them. They were bringing John's worst fears to life, but it was all an act. "As if I would want you to stop me!" he snapped. Violently, he pulled his wedding ring off of his finger and hurled it at Sherlock. Then he grabbed his cane, turned on his heel, and limped out of the restaurant as quickly as he could. That was it. They'd made a scene. They'd split up. And now John was out in the open, without Sherlock, and completely vulnerable. Just what Moriarty would want.

Sherlock easily caught the ring and watched John leave, face impassive to hide the pain inside. Phase one complete. He clenched his fist tightly around the little gold band and stood up, walking out of the restaurant and ignoring the stares they had garnered with their performance. Yes, it was just a performance. So why did it feel like John had just ripped his heart out and crushed it underfoot? He barely made it to the cab that Mycroft arranged to conveniently have in the area before tears started to fall.

**I.:.O.:.U**

In the opposite direction, a black car with tinted windows rolled up next to John. The back window opened just a slit, enough for a voice to slip out saying, "Helloooo, Johnny~."

John froze where he stood. Even though he'd been expecting it, that voice still chilled him to the bone. And at the same time, it made him feel nothing but rage. Moriarty was the bane of his existence, the thorn in his side, the only thing that posed a threat to his and Sherlock's happiness. After a moment of hesitation, John kept walking, saying nothing. Best not to jump into it and risk making Moriarty suspicious.

The car easily kept to John's speed. "Oh, is that any way to say hello? How rude!"

"I'm definitely not in the mood, Moriarty," John said, scowling. His heart pounded. This moment could make or break their plan. Any moment could. Any move by John, or any word he said, ran the possibility that Jim would realise this was a set-up.

"Yes, I couldn't help but overhear your little spat. Dreadful business. I guess Sherly hasn't changed after all." Jim tutted a little. "Too bad. You do make a lovely couple!" The car stopped and the window rolled down further to reveal his face. "Feel like a little revenge~?" he asked with a grin.

"Leave me alone," John said firmly. "Just because I'm angry with Sherlock, or really don't want to have anything to do with him ever again, doesn't mean I'm going to team up with you for some sort of sick revenge. So go away. I'm not interested in your games."

"Oh...Still such a good boy even after all this time. How dull." Jim shrugged. "I didn't want to have to do this but if you're not going to cooperate~..." He snapped his fingers and someone from an alley nearby dashed out and put a rag with chloroform over John's face.

John dropped his cane, and it clattered to the ground with finality. He struggled as best he could, but he was no match for his assailant's strength, and the chloroform overwhelmed him. His body slowly sagged as he lost consciousness.

The man threw John into the back, leaving his cane behind, and the car took off.

They set John up in an old warehouse and Jim sat with his legs crossed on a wooden crate, texting. He shot one off to Sherlock.

'Oh Sherly, you shouldn't leave your things lying around. Quite careless~ -JM'

John regained consciousness and immediately doubled over and retched, vomiting on the floor of the warehouse. Moriarty had used chloroform on him once before, all those years ago at the pool, and John still hated the after effects. God, the pool. It felt like a lifetime ago...

"Look who's awake! Did you have a nice nap, Johnny boy~?" Moriarty made a face at the vomit on the floor. "Nuh uh, that will never do." He clapped once and a few men moved John over and cleaned up. "Don't want my suit to pick up the smell. It's brand new, Armani." He smoothed his lapels then pulled out his phone and read the text he'd just received. "Well, you may be angry but it looks like Sherlock still cares. I'll bet he's on his way to rescue you," Jim sang. "How romantically cliche~."

"Armani?" John managed to slur. He felt light-headed. His ears were ringing. "Thought you were a Westwood bloke? Either way, it doesn't suit you. You look hideous."

Jim frowned thoughtfully at that. "I like all designers! But Seb picked this out for me. Before your precious detective offed him." He sighed. "He never did have a good fashion sense."

"You don't seem very upset that he's gone," John said. He tried to move, only to find his wrists tied. He tugged unhappily at the bonds. "Just let me go. You're wasting your time."

"I'm not foolish enough to have a heart. The people that work for me are disposable." Though something in his face showed that he wasn't being completely honest. He giggled at John's attempts to escape. "You should know better than that. If I thought something was a waste of time I wouldn't do it. Silly John~."

"You're wearing this game out, you know," John hissed. "The same thing, over and over. All you do is capture me and tie me up, or try to hurt me from a distance. Too much of a coward to do it up close and personal, aren't you?"

All the joking died from Jim's features and he took a few long strides till he was right in John's face. "You don't want me to be up close and personal," he said, dangerously low. "You wouldn't like it."

"What, as if I like it now?" John snarled. "Because believe me, I don't."

Jim's demeanor went back to giddy. "I'm sorry, I thought we were having fun! I'm a terrible host. Bad Jim!" He giggled and went back to the crate and sat delicately. He checked his watch and shook his head. "Sherly's taking his time. Maybe he doesn't care after all. Wouldn't that be a sad end to the story."

"There is no story, Moriarty," John said. "Just you and your twisted mind. You're wasting your time. Sherlock probably won't even come for me. That text was probably to make you think he would, but he won't. Because now you'll be waiting forever, and won't that be so boring for you? Seems like just the sort of trick Sherlock would play. But I'm not of any use to you, so let me go."

Jim shook his head. "No can do. You really don't know your own husband, do you? No wonder your relationship is failing~," he sang. "If there's one thing about Sherlock, it's that he's predictable. He'll be here. And I've arranged a little welcoming party outside so we'll know when he's coming."

"Welcoming party?" John echoed. "What do you mean?"

Jim grinned like the madman he was. "You'll like this one. If he can get past the security outside, I've got a few surprise guests inside who have been told to capture him if they see him, bring him in here, and then force him to watch me kill you." He pulled out a gun that had been in his pocket and aimed it at John's head. "And you said I never do anything myself."

"As if I've never had a gun to my head before," John muttered. "So, what if Sherlock really doesn't come? Kill me anyway?"

"Hmm...Yes, I think so. If he doesn't come, which I'm sure he will, and then he finds out that I broke his toy, I think he'll feel bad enough to come to me on his own." Jim smiled brightly. "But for now, all we can do is wait. Though this is getting a little tedious. Maybe I'll just do it now and get it over with." He clicked off the safety.

John tensed in his seat. This was bad. Very bad. Typically, he would egg Moriarty on, encourage him, just to piss him off, but in this case, Moriarty seemed serious, and rescue was coming, so he couldn't. But his silence would seem suspicious. His thoughts came to a grinding halt. What was he supposed to do...?

"What's wrong, Mr. Chatterbox? Nothing more to say? Well, that's boring." Jim twirled the gun around his finger. "Alright, how about this. I'll give Sherly ten minutes. If he doesn't show up...Well, you know the rest."

John held his breath. Ten minutes. At least Lestrade had heard. At least they knew the deadline. Hopefully, Moriarty wouldn't get bored. Hopefully, he wasn't feeling changeable.

**I.:.O.:.U**

The cab took Sherlock to where Mycroft, Lestrade, and a few other Yarders were in a surveillance van. The detective wiped at his eyes and stepped out of the cab and into the back of the van. Mycroft glanced at him as he got in, actually looking sympathetic. Sherlock turned away and rubbed his eyes.

Everyone in the van could hear everything that was going on through the mic they had planted on John. They were using his cell phone also to keep track of where he was. The pain in Sherlock's heart was turning to panic as he listened. They could hear the sounds of the scuffle over the microphone and Sherlock swallowed hard. "Oh my God. Oh God this is terrible!" He pulled at his hair, feeling himself falling apart.

Lestrade put a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's okay," he said. "We've got him. We can track him no matter what."

"It's not ok!" Sherlock snapped. "How is it ok that I potentially sent my husband to his death?" He shook off Lestrade's hand and went to the screen showing a satellite map of London, watching the tiny dot that showed where John was being taken.

Lestrade sighed, though inwardly, he was impossibly nervous. Frightened. John was in trouble. "Sherlock, as long as Moriarty doesn't start undressing him, he won't find the wires or the protective gear. It's okay. We'll get to him in time."

Sherlock groaned in frustration. He should be there now, saving him. Some part of him felt like he really did fight with him and he feared the last thing John would remember was his cold indifference as he left. Sherlock clutched the ring still in his hand. His phone vibrated. Sherlock read the text and replied immediately: 'I swear on my life, if you touch one hair on his head I will destroy you.'

Lestrade directed the driver of the van to start heading to the proper location, slowly. If they arrived too quickly, Moriarty would realise John was being tracked.

The van pulled up about a block away from the warehouse and Sherlock looked to Lestrade in desperation.

Lestrade shook his head. "Wait," he said. His men were moving in, taking out any security Moriarty had in place.

Sherlock groaned again and turned to Mycroft. "Please tell me you have a cigarette."

Mycroft pulled out a box and lighter and handed it to his brother. "John isn't going to be happy." Sherlock just shot him a glare as he lit up.

"He'll smell it on you," Lestrade warned, watching Sherlock. It put him at ease, knowing he could still make jokes about Sherlock's smoking, about how John would react, even in such a situation. It was okay. This was still in their control.

Sherlock turned his glare on Lestrade before taking a long drag and letting it out, relishing in the familiar feeling that he had been craving for days now. He finished half the cigarette before asking, "Is it time yet?"

Lestrade frowned at the words he heard through John's wire. "Welcoming party...?" he muttered, ignoring Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had only half been paying attention before since John was just buying time, whirled around to face the speakers as he listened, and then Lestrade.

"Damn it," Lestrade hissed. "Damn it!" He made a call to his team. They would have to take care of the extras. And then, before busting in, they would have to find a way to disarm Moriarty before he could fire, which in this case, seemed impossible.

The horror was clearly written on Sherlock's face and he started pacing the length of the van. He needed to think. There had to be a way to get Moriarty before he...before he did what he was planning to do. If there was only a way that he could take him out without him knowing that he was there. If he could sneak in when the extra men were removed, perhaps he could do it. He turned back to the D.I. "Let me know when it's clear. I'm going to do it."

"Sherlock," Greg said warningly. "One wrong move..."

Sherlock took a deep breath and bowed his head. "One wrong move, and I'll be firing two bullets."

"We wouldn't let you," Greg said sharply, sharing a look with Mycroft. "Don't say that. John wouldn't want that, and you know it." Ten minutes. "Start a timer!" he snapped at one of the men in the van.

Mycroft nodded sternly, his normally cool exterior breaking. "You're being irrational."

"You have no idea what you're talking about!" Sherlock snapped at him. He looked him up and down. "You don't know what it's like to care about someone!"

Mycroft held his gaze, trying to show him through his eyes how wrong he was. Sherlock's eyes opened just a fraction, understanding dawning on him and then surprise and confusion.

"Sherlock, we're clear," Lestrade said, grabbing his belt and putting his gun in its holster. He glanced at the timer that his agent had obediently set. Six minutes. It would take three to get in there, and a few more to assess the situation. "Let's go."

Sherlock averted his eyes from Mycroft and muttered something that neither of them were even sure what it was, then he followed Lestrade out of the van.

**I.:.O.:.U**

Jim glanced at his watch. "Almost halfway done. How are you holding up, Johnny boy?"

"Fine, _Jim_," John drawled back. In reality, his heart was pounding against his ribcage. Would Sherlock make it in time? Would Lestrade be able to disarm Moriarty before he could shoot?

"Oh good~!" Jim clapped. "We don't have much time left now. Just want to make sure you're comfortable."

"Oh, yes," John said. "So comfortable. I could take a nap." He glared at Moriarty.

"You wouldn't want to fall asleep now! There's only two minutes left til the show~!" Jim stepped closer and gave his cheek a little pinch.

John pulled back sharply, though he couldn't go far, considering he was tied up. "Don't touch me!" he snapped.

"Oooh feisty!" Jim shook his head looking a little sad. "It's quite a shame that you played for the other team. I think we could have been great friends." Looking at his watch again he grinned. "One minute. Too bad for you. I guess Sherlock doesn't love you after all."

**I.:.O.:.U**

Greg crept inside, leading Sherlock and a few of his men. When they peeked around the corner and into the room, the situation was obvious and dire. Moriarty was two paces away, his gun in hand, the safety off. He could shoot point-blank in a split second.

Sherlock's heart dropped into the stomach at the sight before him. They didn't have any time to spare. He hissed into Lestrade's ear. "Why don't you just shoot him in head?"

"I'm a good marksman, Sherlock," Greg whispered back. "But there's no guarantee I'll make the shot." John would make it, Lestrade thought. John would never miss. "And if I don't make the shot, that's it. John's dead."

Sherlock winced at the 'd' word. "Well, someone has to do something or he's going to be... _that_ anyway." He looked around them, trying to come up with a plan. "I can distract him if I climb on those crates over there. Then you can get closer and make the shot."

Greg scanned the room, then gave a quick nod. "Alright," he said softly. "Go." He readied his gun.

Sherlock went to a pile of crates that was to the side of Jim and climbed to the top. This way, Lestrade could sneak around the other way and get him from behind. When he got to the top, and he heard Moriarty's twisted voice telling that lie, he couldn't stop himself. "What would you know about love anyway, Jim?" he called from his perch on the crates.

Jim whipped around just as he had hoped. _It's working!_ "Why if it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes! A bit late, don't you think?"

"As long as John's alive, I'm not late."

Jim giggled. "Well, no. But you might find that someone else is quite soon..." He moved his arm to point the gun at John again. Sherlock looked at him, silently trying to tell him to hang on and help him stall until Lestrade could take his shot.

"That's a horrible pun," John blurted. "Sherlock is still more clever than you, I guess, even if he is a complete dick all the time."

Lestrade, as he slithered closer through the shadows at the edge of the room, rolled his eyes. Of all things, John had called Moriarty out on his humour. Really.

"That really hurts, John. Just when I thought we were getting closer." Jim put a hand over his chest, feigning insult. "Better watch what you say, or I might just be naughty~."

Sherlock swallowed. "Are you getting bored already? I just got here. I thought we'd play a while longer." He hoped he didn't sound too desperate to keep him talking.

"Well, I did have to wait for you for a while. I don't know if I feel like playing anymore."

"I think you're just afraid you'll lose," John suggested darkly, his glare fierce and hateful.

Greg lifted his gun, ready to take the shot. But a moment later, he was knocked on the back of the head, and he dropped his weapon. A henchman grabbed him by the arms and he was pulled, stumbling and dizzy, out into the open. Apparently, his men had missed one.

Sherlock watched in horror as a man attacked Lestrade and dragged him out in front of them. Jim turned around at the sounds of the scuffle. "What's this? The good old Detective Inspector. Ah, Sherlock, I underestimated you!" He wagged a finger at the detective. "But now I see what's been going on. You almost had me fooled! I guess John was right; you are more clever." Jim turned back around, face stoic, and pointed the gun at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I just can't have that."

Sherlock froze in his place. Maybe this was how it was meant to be. They just couldn't seem to win against him no matter what they did. But if he died, if Jim made sure of it this time, John would be safe. And Lestrade and everyone else that he would only grudgingly admit to caring about. He bowed his head and took a deep breath. He only wished that the fake fight hadn't been the last thing that John would remember.

But John was clever, too, and a trained soldier, and he loved Sherlock so much that he could do the impossible to save him. After ten minutes of effort, he slipped the ropes, leaped from the chair, and tackled Jim Moriarty to the ground.

Lestrade took the opportunity to elbow his captor in the ribs, dropping him to the floor. He grabbed his radio and called for back-up.

Jim didn't expect the sudden attack and the gun fired in his shock. "Well, this is a surprise!" He grinned up at John. "Excellent work, Johnny boy!" He turned his head to look at Sherlock. "I'm gonna miss our little game, Sherly. It was fun while it lasted." Lestrade's team burst in and handcuffed Jim and the other man, pulling them away.

The bullet had whizzed past Sherlock, grazing his ear which instantly stared pouring blood, but how could he even care at that moment? John had done it! His wonderful, perfect John had managed to somehow defy everything and save the day. He jumped down the crates and ran to him, throwing his arms around him. "You're amazing! Fantastic! I love you so much! I'm sorry about everything I said, you know I didn't mean it. I love you." He punctuated each sentence with a kiss.

"Mmmf, Sherlock!" John managed between kisses. He pushed the man back, his hand going quickly to his ear. "Damn it, Sherlock!" His eyes shone with worry, and lingering fear, and also complete and utter relief.

Sherlock was almost crying at this point, the tears pooling in his lower lids. But he had a huge smile on his face. "Who cares about that? It's easily fixable." He grabbed him by the shoulders. "We're finally safe!"

"We will be," John said, trying very hard not to smile. "Just as soon as you're not bleeding." He took Sherlock by the arm. "Come on. Let's get you outside so I can patch you up, yeah? You idiot." He said it fondly, and started to lead Sherlock toward the exit.

And that's when the explosives went off.

* * *

Aaaaaaand, a Moftiss-style cliffhanger XD It was her idea, I didn't see it coming until she sent the email and trust me, I flipped out, haha. If you want to find out what happens next, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	14. Aftermath

Hi guys! First of all, I'd like to say that my little experiment worked. No one put the extra little message in their reviews, meaning that no one reads my author notes XD

Still, if you do happen to glance at this, thank you to everyone who has been reading since Monday, and who keeps coming back to read. You guys are awesome, and I wish that I had more of this to give you. But after this, there's only one chapter left :( Buuuuuuuuut I have **GOOD NEWS. **I emailed my RP buddy who did this with me, telling her that I had posted this as a story, and she said that she replied to me a long time ago and I never got it XD But what's even better is that we decided to start a new RP and this one is just as awesome so I might have to do the same thing again with it ;] Something to look forward to.

Anyway, that's all for me. I gotta go shopping. :p See you Monday for the conclusion. Love ya!

~SXS

**For warnings and disclaimer, please see first chapter AN. Thank you!**

* * *

Mycroft heard it over the speakers in the van before he saw it. He burst out and there was the building

in flames. And no sign of Sherlock, John, or Greg. He quickly pulled out his mobile and dialed for help, all the help that he could get, then he ran towards the building. He had to get them out before the place collapsed.

Mycroft covered his face, trying to breathe through the fabric of his sleeve as he made his way around fallen and falling and flaming crates trying to find his brother and the other two. "Sherlock?" he called.

He cursed when no one answered. He tried calling a few more times until he noticed someone under a bit of rubble. It was Lestrade. "Greg? Gregory?" Mycroft knelt next to him and tried to move some of the larger chunks off of him to see if he was awake. Or more importantly breathing.

Lestrade gave a low groan, hacking violently as he fought his way back to consciousness.

Mycroft let out a breath of relief. He managed to move some more of the debris and gently pulled him out with hands under his arms. The smoke was starting to get to him as he worked and he bent down lower. "Can you hear me, Greg? Do you think you can crawl?"

Lestrade just gave a nod. He was fairly sure he could manage crawling. The task only seemed the slightest bit daunting. He rolled and braced himself on his hands and knees.

Mycroft nodded in reply. "Good. Follow me." He started to crawl, leading Greg back the way he had come in. Or at least trying to. Somewhere along the way he started to feel like they were going in circles what with all their dodging and swerving.

Greg's arm throbbed, as did most of his body. But his arm most especially. Some damage had clearly been done by the rubble. He couldn't dwell on it, though. Now, he needed to focus on only one thing. OUT.

Finally Mycroft found his way out and he spluttered as he hit fresh air again. He turned back to make sure Greg was still behind him and then motioned some of the medics over.

Greg collapsed the moment they were out. A paramedic hauled him up and away from the building as the structure began to fail and cave in.

Mycroft followed behind the paramedics as they pulled Greg into a separate ambulance and started to check out his injuries, namely his arm. He was given an oxygen mask as well as Mycroft as they sped off to the hospital.

Greg drifted in and out of awareness on the way to the hospital. He was worried about Sherlock, and John, and even Mycroft, to some extent. And he was worried about the rest of his men. Some of them, unbeknownst to him, had been lost in the explosion. Lestrade was too busy worrying to have any concept of his own injuries.

The ambulance with Mycroft and Greg reached the hospital first, and Greg was wheeled into the OR on a gurney. Mycroft waited outside for, he hoped, Sherlock and John.

**I.:.O.:.U**

John's ears were ringing, and he coughed roughly against the scent of gasoline and the thickness of smoke. It was hot. Very hot. Fiery hot. And he was on top of Sherlock. Greg was nowhere in sight. "Sherlock?" he choked, then coughed again. "Sherlock, are you awake?" He shook the man's shoulder. The building groaned ominously.

Sherlock was half awake, aware of pain in his head similar to the one after the car accident, though not as intense. He must have been blown backwards and knocked his head on the ground. "'M awake," he slurred, squeezing his eyes shut as they stung with the air around them. After coughing a bit he managed to wheeze out, "Just can't win." with a smirk.

"We have to get out of here, Sherlock," John said. "The building's on fire. It's going to collapse." He sat up, but didn't stand. Crawling would be safer. "Can you move?" He cast his eyes about, trying to locate Lestrade through the rubble and the thickening smoke.

Sherlock experimentally wiggled his toes and bent his legs, then sat up. "Yes." He noticed John looking around and realised that he must be searching for Lestrade. "We have to go, John. He'll be alright."

John bit his lip in concern, but started to shuffle along, keeping as low to the floor as possible. He coughed as the smoke stung his throat and filled his lungs. His eyes teared from the burn. The exit seemed impossibly far away, and there was plenty of burning rubble to navigate through on the way there.

Sherlock followed, copying John in keeping low to the ground and blinking to clear his eyes so he could see him. He hoped that he was right and that Lestrade was okay. For John's sake if not for his own.

John yelped as a chunk of rubble from the ceiling crashed to earth just in front of them. The sound caused him to inhale a sudden mouthful of air, which had him coughing and retching moments later. The smoke and the lingering effects of the chloroform combined were not pleasant.

"Come on, John, we're almost there," Sherlock urged, rubbing his back a little. He wanted to comfort John more but their priority at the moment was escaping. Taking the lead, he managed to find a hole in the wall where they could squeeze out.

John followed Sherlock out, sucking in the first fresh air he encountered with a long wheeze. He crawled a few extra yards away from the building, for safety's sake, and then collapsed, rolling onto his back and coughing to expel the smog from his lungs.

Sherlock coughed as well, the burning in his chest feeling better with every spasm. There were paramedics nearby and when they noticed the two of them they rushed over to examine them.

John, for once, allowed himself to be man-handled and manipulated by the paramedics without question. He and Sherlock were hauled to the back of one of the ambulances and given oxygen masks to help them breathe. Blankets were draped around their shoulders. John dropped sideways, leaning gratefully against his husband as a paramedic cut away the leg of his trousers to get at a minor burn.

Sherlock moved an arm out of his blanket and under John's to wrap an arm around his waist. The paramedics looked at his ear which he found funny being that that was the least of his problems, and they checked him for a concussion which he luckily managed to avoid this time.

John leaned closer to Sherlock, wincing at the gentle fingers that worked to carefully clean his burns. They would be brought to the hospital, even though their injuries were rather minor.

Sherlock rubbed his hand soothingly over John's waist, trying to distract him from the pain of the burn. They spent the ride to the hospital not moving an inch from their position. When they reached the A&E, Mycroft met them at the back of the ambulance and he actually looked relieved but it only lasted for a split second before he was back to his usual self. "Greg is alright. His arm was broken in a few places and they're going to operate to set it back in place. But other than that and some bruises, he should be fine."

Sherlock's shoulders dropped a little. He hadn't even realised that he'd actually been worried about Lestrade. But he supposed that he couldn't deny the fact that he actually liked him. Not that he had to say it out loud.

"That's it, then," John croaked, voice rough from the smoke. "It's over. It's...over." He could hardly believe it. His head spun, and if not for the support of Sherlock's body, he might have swooned.

"Yes. It's over," Sherlock repeated. Saying it didn't solidify it like he thought it would. It was more like a dream than anything, as if any second he would wake up and realise it was morning and that they had to do it again for real this time. But they had done it. There had been a few bumps but overall they were successful.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held tightly. Even as the paramedics tried to coax him out of the ambulance to bring him inside, he held on. He cried. But these, for once, weren't tears of distress. It was over. It was finally over.

Sherlock returned the embrace and glared at the paramedics who finally left them. He rubbed John's back and rocked him gently as he felt his own tears starting to fall. After a while, he wasn't sure how long, he reached around for John's left hand and slipped his wedding ring back on, kissing it before hugging John again.

That only started John's tears anew. He gripped Sherlock's hand, entwining their fingers so their rings clashed. "I'll never take it off again," he swore. "Never."

Sherlock nodded, John's fresh sobs increasing his own. "I know." He squeezed John's hand tightly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," John replied. "I love you, too. So much." He cried for a long while, refusing to let go of Sherlock. Eventually, he settled. "We should...check on Greg," he suggested.

Sherlock let John cry for as long as he needed, murmuring soft words of love to him through his own tears. When he had finally calmed a little, Sherlock gently pushed him back to arm's length and wiped away a few stray tears from his cheeks. "Yes, let's go." He held onto his husband's hand as they climbed out of the ambulance and walked into the hospital.

They walked in silence for a few moments. "Mycroft seemed pretty worried about Lestrade," John said off-handedly, looking just a touch amused. He leaned against Sherlock, using him as a crutch in the absence of his cane.

Sherlock easily supported his weight as they went. "You think so?" he asked, turning to look at him. He could see the little bit of laughter in John's eyes and it made him smile. "What are you implying, John?"

"Oh, nothing," John said. "Just that Greg's been a little lonely since he finally split up with his wife."

"You think Mycroft...and Lestrade?" Sherlock had to let out a laugh at the idea. "Well, I would say that it's not possible because Lestrade is straight and my brother doesn't do sentiment but then there's us. I suppose anything is possible."

"I think it's possible," John said. "You're right. Anything's possible. Especially among the friends we keep."

"Yes. Absolutely." Sherlock leaned in closer to whisper to him as they approached Greg's room. "You do realise that now I will have to tease Mycroft later about his little crush on the D.I."

"Don't be too hard on him," John scolded. "You're more alike than you think, meaning he's potentially completely oblivious to it."

Sherlock grumbled a little. "We're not that much alike," he muttered. But he could see John was serious. "Alright, I won't lay it on too thick. Just a little ribbing."

"Good," John said. "And wait a bit, yes? We've all had a bit of a stressful day."

Much as he wanted to, Sherlock would hold back. John was right; now was not the time. "Whatever you say, love." Sherlock pressed a quick kiss into his hair as they rounded a corner and went into Lestrade's room. Mycroft was inside already, leaning against a wall and looking almost too nonchalant. Sherlock couldn't help a faint grin as he led John to on of the chairs so he could sit.

Greg was just coming to, his eyelids fluttering open and his lips parting in a groan that fogged the oxygen mask still strapped over his nose and mouth.

Mycroft immediately looked up and leaned forward, but then just as quickly regained composure and cleared his throat. He stepped over slowly to Greg's bedside. Sherlock moved John's chair, careful to make sure that it didn't screech against the floor, and brought the both of them closer to Greg as well.

Greg let his tired eyes sweep over them. "Two Holmes...three, really...in one room. God help me." His voice was rough and weak.

Mycroft smiled just a bit. If Greg could joke right out of anesthetic then he would be just fine.

"We can always leave if you like," Sherlock said with a little smirk. If John commented on it he would just tell him that he hadn't actually said anything specific.

Lestrade shook his head. "You're all okay?" he murmured, eyes lingering on Mycroft a bit longer than the others.

"We're all fine," Sherlock said.

"We're all incredibly lucky," Mycroft added. He met Greg's eyes for a moment before looking down at his arm which they had put in a cast. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Greg murmured. "I'm fine. It's just a broken bone. I've had much worse, believe me." He sighed. "It's over, then. We're done with Moriarty."

"He was extricated and taken away before the explosion," Mycroft said. "I made sure he was put directly into maximum security solitary confinement. The rest will be dealt with later."

"He's being executed," John said firmly. "He has to be. He's too dangerous, otherwise. Normally, I wouldn't want to see any man killed, but...Jim Moriarty deserves it."

"Yes. He most certainly does," Sherlock said, the hatred clear in his voice. He squeezed John's shoulders where his hands were resting.

Mycroft nodded. "The cell is merely temporary until arrangements are made. But it won't be long before Moriarty is once and for all dead."

John closed his eyes. So many years and so much pain, and this was it. This was the end. And they were all alive and, for the most part, well. John would always limp, and Lestrade's arm would probably ache when it got cold, but those scars were nothing compared to what they might have been had Moriarty been allowed to continue.

"I should tell you, then, Sherlock," John said. "Our adoption papers went through."

Sherlock's eyes widened and a smile spread over his features. He stepped around to squat in front of John, hands on his knees. "We're going to be parents," he said quietly, the grin refusing to disappear.

John grinned brilliantly at Sherlock, at his husband. "We are," he said. "We really are."

Sherlock leaned up and captured John's lips. Mycroft muttered something about sentiment and rolled his eyes, though he didn't exactly look away.

John kissed Sherlock back deeply, his arms going around the man's neck to pull him even closer.

Lestrade cringed. "So...I'll be dealing with four Holmes, then?" he teased, light-heartedly. "I think that's four too many..."

"Yes, well," Mycroft started. "At least you're not going to be the uncle who will most likely end up babysitting when the two of them run off on their adventures. Or whatever else they might be doing."

"I didn't need that thought," Greg replied instantly. "And honestly, if the kid is going to be raised a Holmes, I'm sure he's going to be brought along on some of those adventures. You two did want a boy, right?"

Sherlock didn't bother pulling away from John, instead making some humming sounds and waving a hand at Greg.

"I believe that was a yes," Mycroft supplied.

"Going to name him Hamish?" Greg said dryly, and at that, John broke away from Sherlock and laughed loudly.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. "Actually, it does have a ring to it. Hamish Watson-Holmes."

John gave a fond smile. "Yes," he agreed. "It does. I wouldn't mind, if you wouldn't."

Lestrade groaned, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock turned around and made a face at the Detective Inspector, before turning back to John. "I wouldn't mind at all."

"Hamish Watson-Holmes it is," John said happily. "And he'll be brilliant, like you."

"And he'll have a big heart like you." Sherlock was practically glowing from his and John's shared happiness.

"So he'll viciously interrogate a witness and then apologise for it," Lestrade said flatly. John found himself laughing again.

Sherlock couldn't help a little chuckle himself. It did sound like an accurate combination.

"I'm just dying to meet him," Mycroft said.

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at his brother. "You're just jealous that John and I are going to have a happy family."

"We get to meet him tomorrow," John informed Sherlock. "According to the letter. He was born two weeks ago. We'll be a bit banged up for it, but that's okay. Maybe he'll grow up to think we're superheroes."

Sherlock's smile widened, if that was even possible. "He'd be right. You're definitely my hero."

John flushed. "Very sentimental of you, Sherlock," he teased. "I think I've been a bit of an influence on you. Good or bad, I wonder?"

"Good I think. Though others would tend to disagree." At that Sherlock shot a look at Mycroft who just rolled his eyes. "And it's only for you. You and Hamish are the only ones who will ever get sentiment from me."

John sighed. "Sherlock, Mycroft _is_ the uncle. You're going to have to at least let him see Hamish from time to time."

Sherlock pouted. "But Mycroft is annoying."

"I am still standing here, you know," Mycroft said.

John laughed. "Yes, Sherlock, he may be annoying, but he's still your brother. And he's still Hamish's uncle. And I want...I want Hamish to have as many people to love him as possible."

Sherlock's eyes softened. "I know, love. I was just teasing." He pecked John on the lips. "He will be well loved, I'm sure. Everyone who meets him will love him.

"Good," John murmured. "Good. That's all I could ask for, that he be loved." He wanted his son to be raised in a world without fear-at least without the kind of fear he and Sherlock were used to being faced with. Fear of missing his favourite program on the telly, maybe. Not fear of death, of being followed and watched and being the unwilling participant in a horrid game.

Sherlock gave him a smile. He wanted the same thing of course. He wanted Hamish to experience the kind of caring and love that he never got when he was a child, not since his mother was alive. Especially from himself and John, if not Mycroft, Greg, and the rest of their pseudo-family. It was like they had both agreed that first night when they had decided to start a family; they were going to be better fathers than the ones they had.

John leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "We should get some rest," he said. "And then we'll be taking Hamish home before we know it."

"Yes. Let's go home." Sherlock stood up and offered his hand to John.

John smiled, slipping his hand easily into Sherlock's. It always felt right, like their hands were made to be put together. "Feel better, Greg," he said, glancing over to the bed. Lestrade gave a sleepy grunt in response, already dozing.

Sherlock gave his hand a squeeze and they started off, the detective once again acting as John's crutch. "Good night, Mycroft," he said, just a note of teasing in his voice. He had a feeling that his brother would probably be staying in or around the hospital tonight.

John chuckled as he left with Sherlock. "How would you feel about it, then?" he asked. "Your somewhat-boss, dating your older brother?"

Sherlock shrugged. "What does it matter to me? Mycroft can do whatever he wants, or rather whomever. Just as long as they don't start describing their sexual endeavours to us." He grimaced at the thought.

John laughed again, brightly, the weight of Moriarty gone from all of his expressions. "I doubt they would do that, Sherlock," he said. "Most people keep those sorts of things quiet."

"You're probably right," Sherlock said with a nod. "At least, I hope you are." He smiled at the sound of John's laughter. Sherlock just loved it when he laughed. Hopefully it would be a sound that he would hear much more often now.

"I'm right more often than you care to admit," John teased. He gave in to his weariness and let himself lean a bit more heavily against his husband. "I can't wait to get home and sleep. Preferably for a very long time."

"Agreed." Even Sherlock was feeling a bit tired after the whole ordeal. He hadn't been sleeping in the days leading up to today and was also physically and emotionally exhausted from the events. "We can have a lie in before we meet Hamish. Maybe I'll even bring you breakfast in bed." They stepped out of the hospital and onto the sidewalk where Sherlock hailed a cab.

"Should I trust you to cook breakfast without starting a fire in the flat?" John asked dully. He climbed the stairs to 221B with heavy steps.

Sherlock pretended to look insulted. "I'm not that incompetent in the kitchen." He could see John was struggling with the stairs and he gently scooped him up to carry him the rest of the way.

John yelped, his arms shooting around Sherlock's neck. He held on tightly. "It's still always a bit of a shock when you do that," he said.

Sherlock grinned at him. "Sorry, love." He gave him a chaste kiss, carrying him into the flat and bringing him to their room. He laid John down on the bed before starting to strip out of his burnt smelling clothing.

"Are you okay?" John asked, watching him carefully, scanning for any hint of an injury that Sherlock might have chosen to conceal in favour of being sure that John received treatment first.

Sherlock looked down at himself. He ached a little, like there would be big bruises on his back tomorrow, and his head was still throbbing a bit, but it was nothing major. He kicked off his trousers and climbed into the bed. "I'm perfect." Because in the end, what were a few injuries when they were finally safe from Moriarty? "What about you? How's that burn?"

John looked down at his freshly bandaged leg. "Fine," he decided. "Not horrible, and not like it can do very much damage. My limp won't be getting worse."

Sherlock frowned at that. He still felt like John's limp returning was his fault. He pulled his husband towards him and pressed a kiss into his hair. "Hopefully we'll only get better from here."

"We will," John assured him. "I know we will. The only thing that's going to get worse is our sleeping habits, but babies have a tendency to cause that."

"Well, perhaps your sleeping habits. I'm already awake most of the time." Sherlock smiled at him. "Perhaps I can take the night shift, per say."

"We should split it, Sherlock," John argued lightly. "It's only fair. And you should really try to start sleeping more. If Hamish sees that you never sleep, he'll grow up thinking that's normal."

"My body is conditioned not to need as much sleep anymore," Sherlock said. "Even if I wanted to, I'm not sure I could."

"You can recondition it," John said. "I'll just have to start tiring you out."

"Oh?" Sherlock smirked. "And how do you propose to do that?"

John chuckled. "I'm sure I'll think of something," he assured him. "But right now, I'm already tired out, and I just want to sleep."

"I look forward to it. But you're right, we both need to sleep tonight." Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes," John said softly, returning his kiss. He settled back against the pillows, carefully maneuvered his leg into a comfortable position, and closed his eyes.

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Well, there's only one chapter left. If you want to see the conclusion, please fave or follow the story. Or if you'd like to tell me how you liked this, leave a review, as I love to see what everyone thinks :D


	15. Their Happy Ending

**PLEASE READ THIS AN FOR ME, THANKS. **Well, guys, this is it. The last chapter of the story. I'm gonna keep things short up here so please read my little not afterwards, thank you! See you at the bottom!

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Sherlock actually managed to sleep for a considerable amount of time. He woke before John, though, and smiled at the sleeping face of his husband. Giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, he slipped out of bed to the kitchen. John was right, he needed to learn to cook since they were going to have a kid. Let the learning begin.

When John woke to the sounds of movement in the kitchen, he was at once puzzled, concerned, and delighted. Sherlock was making an effort. But Sherlock was making a completely unsupervised effort. Sighing fondly, John rolled out of bed and grabbed his cane, limping his way to the kitchen.

After his third attempt at making hotcakes (he accidentally added powdered magnesium to the first batch, yeast to the second, and the third was burnt to a crisp) Sherlock was finding himself quite frustrated with this whole cooking ordeal. The kitchen was a disaster, he was covered in flour and spattered batter, and John would be up and would probably start yelling at him any minute. As if on cue, he heard the uneven steps of his husband down the hall.

John paused in the doorway of the kitchen. He arched one eyebrow, then sighed. "Did you even attempt to use a recipe, or did you just start throwing things together hoping you would manage something resembling food?"

"You're the one who wanted me to learn to cook." Sherlock attempted to brush off some of the flour but only resulted in shmearing the mess more. "As I told you before, it's more your area than mine."

John snorted in amusement. "It's fine," he said. "You'll learn. Just...wake me up, next time." With a smile, he limped over, wiping a bit of batter from Sherlock's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

Sherlock allowed himself a smile. At least John didn't seem mad. "You better wash your hands well. That might be the batter with the magnesium in it." He pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before he could say anything. "Don't worry, I'll clean it up. You go sit down." He turned John around and nudged him towards the living room.

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright," he said. "Don't fuss. Fetch me when you're done cleaning up so I can show you how to make a proper batter, yeah?" He settled himself on the couch, giving a quiet groan as he straightened out his leg.

Sherlock set to work cleaning, and it was a much more successful endeavour than the cooking. Although it did take him the good part of a half hour to scrape the burnt crust off the pan he had used to try to make the hotcakes. After scrubbing, mopping, and changing clothes, Sherlock was finally ready for John and he called his husband back to teach him.

John made his way into the kitchen, rather stunned at the level of cleanliness Sherlock had managed to accomplish. "Well, that's pretty impressive," he said. "Now if only you would keep things this clean all the time." He smirked and gathered the ingredients they would need for hotcakes.

Sherlock shrugged."Something tells me that the addition of a child isn't going to help matters." He observed his husband, ready to absorb the information and put it in the newly created kitchen of his mind palace.

John chuckled. "I would probably agree with you," he said. He moved to Sherlock's side with all of his equipment and ingredients. Step by step, he walked Sherlock through the process of making hotcakes.

Sherlock watched carefully, and even did a little measuring and mixing himself (with John's supervision of course). After a while, they had a plate of fresh hotcakes, and Sherlock was left thoroughly impressed with how easy John made it seem.

John set the table with two plates and took a seat. "Did you file all that away?" he teased lightly. "Can you handle hotcakes now? They're fairly simple."

"Of course I did. It's the first addition to my kitchen," Sherlock said, tapping a finger to the side of his head. "I believe I can handle it."

John laughed easily, happily. "Wait...you added a kitchen...to your mind palace?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Yes. That seemed the most logical place to store information about food."

John grinned, delighted. He gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. "All of the little quirks that make you so very...Sherlock. I love them. I love you."

Sherlock smiled back. "I love you, too. I love how you balance my insanity."

"You're not insane," John said. "Not really. You're just Sherlock." He took a bite of his breakfast, humming happily.

"I don't know. A little bit of insanity never hurt anyone." Actually that wasn't entirely true, but he didn't need to get into that. "Though I'm happy with being 'just Sherlock' if that's what you like." He took a hotcake and set it on his plate, nibbling at it a little.

"Oh, that is what I like," John said with a smirk. "I like that very much." He watched Sherlock closely, scrutinizing his eating habits.

"I think I like you more," Sherlock said, winking at him. He took another bite. It was actually pretty good, considering he had been involved in the process of making it. He could feel John's eyes on him as he ate, however, and he glanced up. By the way his gaze flickered between Sherlock and the plate below him, he could tell that John was worrying about his eating again. Sherlock took a much bigger bite this time, trying to appease him.

John gave him the slightest of smiles. "You'll work your way up to it," he said, mostly to assure himself. "Hamish needs to see good eating habits. From both of us."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. It might take a while though. I believe my stomach has shrunk over the years."

"I know that, Sherlock," John said. "I am a doctor, after all. Just take it a bit at a time. A snack here or there. Honestly, you'll probably start sleeping more once you eat regularly again."

"Yes, probably." Sherlock took another bite with a small smile towards John. He was doing this as much for him as he was for Hamish. He didn't want John to worry about him as that seemed to be something he did a lot of.

"Are you ready to meet him?" John asked, anxiously. "Do you think he'll like us? What if he doesn't like us?" Hamish was just a baby, of course, but John found himself very worried.

"I've been ready since we decided we were going to do this," Sherlock said. He reached over and took John's hand, squeezing gently. "Relax, love. As long as we do our job right then of course he'll like us."

John took a slow breath. "Are you sure?" he blurted. "I mean, what if he always cries when I pick him up or never wants me to hold him?"

"That won't happen. He will love you. And he will probably like you better because you know more about children than I do and will know how to get him to _stop_ crying." Sherlock smiled at him. "I promise, everything will be fine."

John sighed, gripping Sherlock's hand tightly. "If you're sure," he murmured. "God, I hope you're right. I want him to like me."

"Aren't I always right?" he asked with a smirk. "In all seriousness, I want him to like me too. But if you think about it, we're the only parents he'll ever know, so it's not as though he'll be comparing us to someone else."

"Right," John said. "Right, of course. You are right, in this case. I think. I hope." He sighed, finishing his breakfast and rising to bring the dishes to the sink.

Sherlock gave him the most reassuring smile he could and got up to help clean up. He was nervous himself, but he had a good feeling at the same time. "Should we wear anything special? Should we bring anything?"

"I...I don't think we need to wear anything special," John told him, turning away from the sink to look up at him. "But, maybe we should bring one of the stuffed animals we have for him."

Sherlock nodded. "Along that line of thinking perhaps a pacifier as well. Maybe a blanket. The baby carrier too."

"Oh," John said. "Right. Of course. We might actually need those things, to bring him home. Right. Obviously." He was frantic with nerves as he pushed past Sherlock to gather the needed items.

Sherlock followed him to John's old room where they were keeping all the baby things for the moment. "I don't think we really need much else besides that. We're just bringing him back here."

"All right," John agreed, as he hefted the baby carrier up with one arm, a small teddy bear, a blanket, and a pacifier tucked inside. "Sherlock, are we really about to do this?"

"Yes. Yes we are," he said with determination.

John took a deep breath. "Okay." He handed the baby carrier to Sherlock, gripped his cane a bit tighter, and headed downstairs. They were ready for this.

Sherlock took the baby carrier in one hand and grabbed John's free hand in the other, gripping it tightly. Together they made their way down the stairs and out of the flat to the street where they got a cab.

John sat nervously in the cab, biting his lip. His good leg bounced restlessly. "What if I do something wrong?" he asked. "What if I don't know what he needs when he cries?"

"John." Sherlock turned to him and kissed him firmly. "You need to relax. We may not get it right at first, but eventually we'll get the hang of it. Getting too nervous may make things worse."

"Sorry..." John apologised. "I'm sorry. I'm really trying to calm down. I am." He returned Sherlock's kiss with a quick peck of his own.

Sherlock cupped John's cheek in his hand, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone. "It's alright. You just have to trust me that everything will be fine. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, of course," John said, as the cab came to a stop at the curb. "I trust you with my life."

"Good." Sherlock grinned and got out of the cab first, holding the door open for his husband.

John took a deep breath and climbed out of the cab, holding tightly to his cane with one hand, to Sherlock's fingers with the other. "I think I'm ready."

"Then let's go." Sherlock squeezed John's hand and they made their way inside.

After they'd checked in, a kindly woman led them to the nursery, and they peered through a layer of glass at the recently born children in their individual beds. The nurse left for a moment and returned with a small bundle wrapped in blue.

Sherlock smiled excitedly at John, and put the baby carrier on the floor. He opened his arms, almost shyly. The nurse handed the baby over to him and he held him close as though he were made of glass. Gently he pushed back the blanket so that he could see his face. "Oh...John..." Sherlock's smile disappeared but the bright wonder didn't dim from his eyes as he took in the sight of the baby. Their baby. And then it returned full force as he looked up at his husband.

John peered into Sherlock's arms, at the perfect sleeping face of _their_ child. Dark hair. God, they weren't even biologically related, and the boy would probably still look like a Holmes. "Hamish..." he murmured. As he watched, the baby woke, and John reached out to gently touch his cheek. Hamish's little hand came up, closing loosely around John's finger.

Warmth filled Sherlock as he watched Hamish's tiny hand curl around John's finger. The little boy's eyes were dark blue and big and curious as they looked up at them and Sherlock melted. He was in love with him already.

"Oh, God, Sherlock," John choked. "He's beautiful. He's _perfect_."

"He is..." Sherlock breathed. "He absolutely is. And he's all ours."

"Can I...?" John asked, setting his cane against the wall and holding out his arms.

Sherlock passed Hamish over to John carefully. With his hands now free, he gently ran the fingers of one over the velvety soft peach fuzz that was the baby's hair.

John supported Hamish's head carefully with his arm and bounced the child very softly. The boy gurgled, seeming pleased, and John couldn't help but grin in return. "You're so small..."

Sherlock grinned, glad to see that John seemed less nervous than before and that Hamish seemed quite content in his arms. "Told you there was nothing to worry about," he murmured into John's ear.

"This is the easy part," John replied quietly, still lost in his son's eyes. His son. _Their_ son. "This is simple. Holding him will never be a problem."

"I seem to remember you saying that you were afraid he wouldn't like you holding him." Sherlock smirked a little but before John could say anything, he added, "Still, he already likes you. Look." Hamish was smiling and reaching out one little hand towards John's face.

John grinned again, heart lifting, and let his head drop so that Hamish's fingers tickled his cheek. "Oh, God, I hope you still love me this much when you're a teenager..."

Sherlock chuckled a little and Hamish giggled when he touched John's cheek. The nurse, who had been watching with a little smile the whole time, told them that whenever they were ready they could check out and take him home. After giving John a quick peck on the cheek, Sherlock followed her to sign the last few of the papers.

While Sherlock was busy with the paperwork, John made Hamish comfortable in his baby carrier and tucked the teddy bear into his short, chubby arms. Hamish hugged the animal gleefully, which made John smile again.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later to find Hamish ready to go in his carrier and John watching him with a broad smile, and the sight made him feel warm all over again. He took the carrier in one hand and John's hand again in the other. "Ready?"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Yes," he said, determined. "Yes, I think I am ready. Are you?"

"Yes, I am too." Sherlock looked down at Hamish who was still smiling and hugging the teddy bear, looking up at the two of them. "I think he's ready too."

John's heart swelled. He was so in love with both of them. Years ago, he would never have pictured his life turning out like this. "Let's go, then."

Sherlock grinned and led his family out the door. He still loved that word. How he had thought that he could go his whole life without this, he didn't know anymore.

Hamish was already asleep again as they loaded the baby carrier into the back of the cab. John chuckled. "That probably won't last long," he said, ready for many sleepless nights.

"No, probably not. But it's worth it." Sherlock watched the baby as he slept, his little chest rising and falling. "How did we get so lucky?"

"I have no idea," John said softly. "But I'm so happy we did..."

Sherlock smiled at him and nodded a little. "As am I."

"He's going to be smart, like you," John said. "With you for a father. And very charming."

"But he'll be kind-hearted like you. And brave," Sherlock added. "Perhaps a bit stubborn too."

"Perhaps _very_ stubborn," John amended. "He'll be getting that from both of us."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, you're right." He looked thoughtfully at Hamish, wondering what else he would pick up from the two of them. He certainly knew what he didn't want him to inherit. Every problem that he had had before he met John.

John watched Sherlock carefully. He could practically read his mind; in John's eyes, Sherlock's thoughts were painted clearly across his face. "Don't think like that," he said. "His life will be different. He'll have you and I. We'll raise him properly. He'll learn to trust feelings, and that loving is okay."

Sherlock looked up at John and smiled softly. He'd always been the only one who really understood, without him saying a word. "I know. We'll make sure of it."

"And he won't have just us," John reasoned. "He'll have Mycroft, and Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. More family than he'll know what to do with."

"An unconventional family at that," Sherlock said with a little grin. "But not necessarily a bad one." He'd never admit how the past few months had in a way reinforced the fact that they all were indeed family to him, but he was sure that John would know anyway.

"No," John said. "The best family ever, in fact." When the cab came to a stop at 221 Baker Street, he climbed out and held the door open for Sherlock and Hamish. His heart fluttered with excitement. They were really bringing their son home.

Sherlock paid the cabbie then carefully maneuvered his way out with Hamish's carrier. He gripped John's hand again, giving him a warm smile before heading up the stairs to the flat.

John followed Sherlock, eager and excited, and terribly nervous. Had he cleaned everything? Were all of Sherlock's experiments stored away? Was the flat safe for Hamish? He'd double, triple, quadruple checked everything, and he was sure Mrs. Hudson had, as well. But he was still nervous.

When Sherlock opened the door, Mrs. Hudson was already inside, fussing about with some of the papers on their desk and she looked up with an excited smile. "Oh, let me see him!" she cried running over to take the carrier from Sherlock and set it on the coffee table. Sherlock kept close, watching her, a protectiveness for Hamish settling over him as she picked the baby up and started cooing at him. Sherlock trusted her, of course, but he was still wary. A side effect of being a new parent he supposed.

John sensed Sherlock's protectiveness, and stepped forward to lay a hand on the man's arm. "Sherlock," he murmured. "If there's one person you don't have to worry about around Hamish, it's Mrs. Hudson." He smiled. The woman was really quite motherly, and would be an amazing help in the coming months-and, most likely, years.

"Really, Sherlock. You're worried about me?" Mrs. Hudson chided, looking at him.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "It's just a natural response," he said. He looked to John and couldn't help a smile back in defeat. "Alright. I suppose you're right. Mrs. Hudson has proven herself to be quite the mother figure in many a situation." He reached up and took the hand from his arm, squeezing it.

John squeezed his hand back, smiling once more. "I understand," he said. "I feel the same way. I'm worried about even letting people hold him. But Mrs. Hudson has sort of earned it, putting up with us all these years, don't you think?"

Sherlock chuckled a little. "Yes, that's true. I'll try to curb my instincts for her." He watched as Mrs. Hudson tickled Hamish's stomach and the baby giggled. He was absolutely adorable, an adjective that Sherlock still couldn't believe he was using seriously.

John grinned. "I'd say it's about time for his bottle, Mrs. Hudson, if you'd like to feed him," he offered.

"Sure thing, dear. Hold him for a second, I'll make it up." Mrs. Hudson passed Hamish into Sherlock's arms and went into the kitchen. Sherlock held the warm bundle close to him, his heart melting all over again. Hamish gave him a bright smile and started tugging at his shirt.

"How do you think Mrs. Hudson would feel about being called Granny?" John chuckled, stepping close to Sherlock's side and peering down at Hamish.

Sherlock grinned a little at the thought. "Something tells me that she won't admit it if she likes it." He leaned towards John, feeling a sense of wholeness with the three of them together. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. "What is he going to call us?"

"Oh..." John blinked. "I hadn't given it much thought. I suppose he'll call us whatever he wants, eventually, but...Dad? And...Papa?"

"With who being whom?" Sherlock asked. "Personally I think you make a better Papa than I."

"That's fine with me," John agreed, pecking him on the cheek and reaching down to tickle Hamish's tummy.

Hamish squirmed and giggled which made Sherlock chuckle as well. Just then Mrs. Hudson returned with the bottle, scooping Hamish from Sherlock's arms and sitting on the couch with him. "Now don't forget, you two, that you have to check the bottle's temperature before you give it to him." She squirted a little on her wrist and seeing that it was cool enough, she let Hamish drink. "And don't tilt it up too far either." Sherlock rolled his eyes but inside he appreciated the tips. He was probably going to need all the help he could get. Hamish happily sucked down the contents of the bottle.

John moved to the nearest chair and sat to rest his leg, watching Hamish and Mrs. Hudson fondly. Perfect. Their little boy, his and Sherlock's, was perfect.

Sherlock perched on the armrest of John's chair, draping an arm around his shoulders. After Hamish finished the bottle, Mrs. Hudson put it down on the coffee table and put the baby over her shoulder, starting to pat his back. "And don't forget to burp him, either." She kept patting until a soft burp came out of his mouth. She pulled him back and nuzzled her face in Hamish's stomach. "Or he'll get a little tummy ache." Hamish babbled with a toothless smile.

"Oh, you're a blessing, Mrs. Hudson," John sighed, giving the woman a smile. "We'd be bumbling idiots without you, I'm sure." He reached out and took Hamish from her, bouncing the infant lightly. "Isn't that right?" he cooed.

"No offense to you boys, but you're probably right." Mrs. Hudson stood and smiled at the two of them. "Well, I should be getting back downstairs. If you need anything just call me." With that, she left the three of them alone.

John cradled Hamish in his arms. The child scrunched up his face and sneezed softly, and not only did it make John smile, but it very nearly made him cry. "Sherlock, what have we gotten ourselves into?"

"If I'm being completely honest, I have no idea. This is both wonderful and nerve-wracking at the same time." Sherlock placed a reassuring hand on John's shoulder. "But we can do this. If we can take down a master criminal with minimal injury, I'm positive we can raise a child."

Minimal injury? Well, John was glad Sherlock was viewing the situation with a more positive outlook, then. "He's very small," he murmured. "I don't think I was expecting him to be so small. I don't remember ever being so small."

"Of course you don't," Sherlock said. "Your memory capacity was far too immature to remember infancy. Haven't you ever seen other babies, though?" The only reason Sherlock had ever seen babies was through cases, but it had made him familiar with the small anatomy.

"Yes, of course," John said. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I guess...I guess it never registered just how small they were. But it is now, because...because this one's my own."

Sherlock nodded. "I suppose he is rather smaller than I expected." He gently smoothed a finger over the baby's peach fuzz. Hamish responded by opening his mouth wide in a yawn. "His smallness adds to his cuteness, wouldn't you say?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes, well, I doubt we'll find him so cute when he wakes us up at three in the morning," John murmured, but couldn't help but smile yet again.

Sherlock laughed lightly. "No, you're probably right. But this is what we signed up for, yes?"

"Yes," John said. "Yes, it is." Now Hamish was beginning to doze, and John handed him carefully to Sherlock. "We should put him in his crib."

Sherlock held Hamish reverently, staring into his drowsy face. Pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, he stood from the chair to go upstairs, knowing John would follow. Once in the old bedroom, really the nursery now, Sherlock lowered the baby into the crib and stayed at the edge watching his tiny chest rise and fall.

John stood beside his husband, leaning on his cane. "No experiments until he's at least fifteen," he decided firmly. "And no dating. Ever."

"Oh, come now, John. How is he supposed to have any fun?" Sherlock asked with a cheeky grin. He looked back down at their son and his tone became more serious. "He needs to know that it's alright to fall in love with anyone. I don't want him to think he has to like boys just because of us."

"He's _our_ son, Sherlock," John said with a grin. "I doubt he'll be quick to let anyone influence his thinking. He'll think for himself."

"You're probably right." Sherlock put an arm around John's waist. "Our son..." He just loved saying that.

John grinned once more, broadly. "Yes," he confirmed. "Our son."

Sherlock pulled John closer into his side. He found himself thinking that he could stay like this forever. He and his husband, looking down at their angel of a son. To think that only a few years before he would never have even considered this a possibility. "Thank you, John," he said.

"For what?" John asked. "I haven't done anything." He tilted his head back to peer up at Sherlock.

"For coming into my life and making it wonderful." Sherlock smiled down at him.

John chuckled. "You can hardly thank me for that, Sherlock," he said. "It's not like I did it on purpose, really."

"No, I suppose," Sherlock said. "But you didn't have to stay either."

"Of course I did," John said. "It would have been stupid of me to leave once I fell in love. And I didn't want to give you any more reason to call me an idiot." He smirked.

Sherlock gave him a little smirk in return. "I'm sure I'll find another reason," he said with a wink.

"Oh, yes, I'm positive," John said. He planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, then looked down at Hamish again. "Maybe we should try to sleep, while he is."

Sherlock shrugged. "I probably shouldn't. It will mess up what little of a regular sleep cycle I have. But if you want to nap, I'll lay down with you."

John nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I really need some sleep, if that's alright."

"Of course," Sherlock said with a soft smile. With one last look at Hamish, sleeping soundly, he took John's hand, leading him downstairs to their room.

John settled into bed gratefully. It seemed he was nothing but tired these days. Maybe he could blame it on getting old, though that was a depressing thought.

Sherlock climbed in with him, laying on his side facing his husband. He smoothed back John's hair from his face and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He could sense John was troubled by something by the crease under his lips. "What is it?"

John sighed. It would never cease. Sherlock could always read him like a book. "Nothing," he murmured. "I've just been so tired. I'm getting old, Sherlock."

Sherlock quirked his mouth to the side and pulled back to meet John's eyes. "Well, if you're getting old then I'm getting old. There isn't more than a five year difference between us and in the scheme of things that isn't much." He stroked his fingers down John's cheek. "We can't avoid aging, love."

"I wish we could," John admitted. "Really. When I first met you, for a while, I felt young again. It was incredible. And now I'm feeling older than ever." He turned into Sherlock's touch, humming softly.

"That's life, so I've heard," Sherlock said softly, keeping his hand on John's face. "But at least we can grow old together. Keep taking cases for a while, retire together, raise bees..."

John quirked a smile at that. "Raise bees...?" he murmured. "You want to be a bee keeper? Well...I guess they would hold your attention."

Sherlock shrugged and smiled seeing John's. "We'd have fresh honey for our tea in the morning. And you're right, I need something to keep me occupied. My body may slow down, but I doubt my mind will."

"Mmm, your body won't, if you start taking care of it properly," John said. "Eating and sleeping regularly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother, if you say so."

John grinned. "Oh, don't be like that," he said. "You know you'd be helpless without me."

Sherlock smiled softly. "You're right. I can't survive without you." He leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips.

"Well, then, hopefully you'll never have to," John breathed against Sherlock's lips. "We'll always be together."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Always." He let his hand trail back to John's hair, stroking it soothingly. "Do you remember what you said, when you were standing at my grave that day? As much as you may say that owe me, I think I owe you much more."

John looked up into Sherlock's once-icy eyes, which now looked like melted crystal with the warmth they held for him. His lips tugged up into a smile. "No. I think we're pretty much even." He leaned up once more to connect their lips. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And I you," Sherlock murmured, returning the kiss. "My dear John."

* * *

Okay, so firstly I want to thank each and every one of you for keeping up with the story, for faving and following, reviewing, and just reading. You guys make it all worth it, and I would love to write for you again. I hope to be able to put up another story for you all soon, but for now, I have to say goodbye. If you want more Sherlock goodness from me and my RP buddies, you can check out **Kiss Away The Pain **on my deviantART page, SailorXStar. It updates on Mondays and Fridays as well, and it's a much longer story so there's more to love. ^^ And now, I must bid you a fond farewell. Thank you again, and I love you all very much.

~SXS


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